Ionic Bonds, Lithium Salts
by mistspinner
Summary: Matthew is a shy psychology major. Gilbert is his bipolar roommate. Somehow, they manage. Prussia/Canada.
1. Just a Little Drunk

The clock reads eleven o'clock, and Matthew William's roommate has still not arrived.

Which is a bit of a problem, mainly because Matthew has been waiting for him for the last eighteen hours.

The drive from Conneticut to New York City is not a long one, but Matthew's parents had insisted on punctuality, and had so driven to the City the night before, stayed at a ritzy hotel they'd enjoyed for exactly seven hours before waking up at five in the morning to help Matthew move in. It was sweet, Matthew supposed, but also quite a bit embarrassing, what with football-player-physique Alfred sobbing on his shoulder and his father clearing his throat every other minute while his mother dabbed at her eyes and told him to be a good boy, she'd miss him and -

Well. It'd been a little overdramatic, that was all. He'd still appreciated the sentiment.

But that had been eighteen hours ago. Eighteen hours since they'd left (Alfred still crying loudly as the silver sedan backed out of the parking lot), eighteen hours since Matthew had stared at the empty walls of his dorm room and realized that this would be his home for the next few years.

He'd unpacked, shortly after, then gotten lunch at a local café, smiled thanks at the barista as he ordered a cappuccino.

And then it had been his dorm room, back to wait for the person whom he would be living with for the next few years.

He'd waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Eventually, he'd gotten bored of waiting (and rather hungry besides) and had gone out for dinner, thinking that _surely _his roommate would be back by the time he'd finished, but that had been a faulty theory. When he'd switched on the lights, a cake in his hands, there had been no one there, no one in the dark room, no suitcases propped on the other wall.

Matthew had stood there, in the doorway for a while, blinked a few times, then shrugged and put the cake on the small table his mother had insisted on bringing. He sat down, then, and began unpacking.

It wasn't, after all, like he should have expected anything different.

His parents had said that everything would change when Matthew went to college, but he supposed, now, that it had been silly to believe them. Had been silly to think -

Well. He'd been silly, that was all. He'd know better now.

So Matthew had unpacked his bags, folded his clothes into the cabinet, brushed his teeth, and sat there for a while, unsure of exactly what to do. The option of going out and meeting some of the other students beforehand flashed through his mind briefly, and then he brushed it away with a slight smile. Roaming the streets appeared briefly - New York City was a big city, sure to be full of plenty of things to do and see - but Matthew had never been much for big cities. They were simply too much: too much noise, too much sound and light and _people _and if New York University had not offered him a near full-ride scholarship, Matthew would have probably never decided to go spend four years of his life in New York City.

He supposed, though, that it wouldn't be all that much different from living in Goshen, Connecticut all his life. His parents had told him (promised him) that everything would change once he went to college, but nothing had, not really. Matthew knew that by now, though he supposed he should have known it for a long time by now. Should have guessed.

So he did what he would have done at home, took a shower and brought out a book to read while he waited for his hair to dry. Got ready for the next morning of meetings and greetings and classes upon classes. At ten, changed, got into bed. Read a little more, a small part of him still hoping that his roommate would show up soon. At eleven and with no sign of anyone else coming, Matthew had smiled, turned out the lamp on his counter and closed his eyes.

He slept for all of twenty-four minutes before the door slammed open, lights and footsteps and heavy metal jarring him from sleep.

Matthew jolted up, blinked violently in the sudden light at the figures in the doorway.

"Shit, there's some - someone in my bed! Not that I'm su-u-prised, or anything - being naturally irresistible and all, chicks are ssssshure to flock to ma-a-me." A sloppy grin, and then one of the blurred figures struck a pose, hands across chest.

"Ah, Gilbert, mon ami, you are indeed tres - tres - chanceux." Another person, a flash of bright, golden hair as long as Matthew's. "You do share, oui?"

"You're both drunk," a third figure said, sighing as he took hold of the second person and pulled him back. "Gil, that's your roommate. Y Francis, I know that you do not discriminate on sex, but that is a man, not a woman."

"I have a roommate?"

"What difference does it make? L'amour knows no bounds -"

"I have a roommate?"

"Dios mio, Francis, don't scare him!"

"Huh. I have a roommate."

Matthew found his glasses, and put them on. Blinked a few times as his vision adjusted to the light.

Crammed into his tiny dorm room were three guys, two of which in deep states of intoxication, another, dark-haired boy slightly more sober but no less dishelmed. He was holding back the blonde-haired boy, Francis, by one arm, and he smiled when he saw Matthew's eyes on him, mouthed 'sorry' and pointed to Francis. Francis, for his part, winked at Matthew, and it was amazing how he could communicate in a single wink. Matthew blushed at it.

Then there was the third boy, who - once he had reconciled himself to the idea of a roommate - seemed to like it quite a bit. Matthew knew, mainly because in the next second Gilbert had flung himself on him, all white hair and alcohol-infused breath and enthusiasm and a hundred words a minute as he dragged Matthew out of bed.

"Ah, Antonio, look! Gilbert is molesting the new boy and yet I am not allowed to?"

Gilbert paused to stick out his tongue at Francis, then went back to his rapid-fire introduction.

"So-this-is-my-side-of-the-room-and-that's-where-Gilbird-will-be-and-he's-pretty-much-awesome - _ow, _shit, Tonio, what was that for?"

"You're scaring the new kid, Gilbert," the dark-haired boy said, sighing. "Introduce yourself. Properly. Antonio Carriedo," he said, smiling as he held out the hand not holding back Francis.

"Francis Bonnefoy, mon cher," said Francis, somehow managing to bow with one hand being held back. "World-class cook and lover at your service."

"And total ass," Gilbert muttered, rolling his eyes, "but he's okay when he's not being a dick. Though not as awesome as me, kid, but, hell, who is? Gilbert Beilschmidt, roomie," he said, grinning as he linked arms with Matthew. "We're gonna have a lot of fun."

"Yes," Antonio sighed, "manana. When you can walk straight. And when you know your roommate's name."

"M-Matthew," Matthew said, still slightly dazed by everything. "Matthew Williams."

"I can too walk straight," Gilbert said, scowling. "I just can't think straight."

"Not that you ever do," Francis muttered.

"Hey! 3.80 last semester, Francis! Suck it!"

"No thank you."

"Mein _gott_, can't you even get your head out of the gutter for half a second?"

"But, Gilbert, est porquoi you love me, no?"

"They're drunk," Antonio informed Matthew. "Although that's not much help, since they act like this all the time."

"Just a little drunk," Gilbert said, "but still ten times as awesome as you are when you're sober, Antonio."

"Not a little drunk, Gil," Antonio said.

"Okay, so I'm kind of two steps from dead-drunk - but that doesn't make me any less awesome!"

Gilbert looked around, as if searching for someone to agree with him.

When no one else said anything, Matthew nodded, murmured quiet assent.

"See?" Gilbert said, slinging an arm around Matthew's shoulders. "Even the new kid knows."

"That's because, mon cheri, he hasn't seen you throwing up in the gutter yet."

"Don't mind them," Gilbert said, grinning at Matthew, "they're been around my awesomeness so long they can't appreciate a good thing when they see it."

"I - I see."

"Gilbert," Antonio said, sighing again, "you're scaring the poor boy. I think he was trying to sleep before we got here, too."

"Oh." Gilbert thought that over for a moment. Then -

"Okay!" he said brightly, letting go of Matthew and pushing him onto the bed so hard his glasses nearly fell off. "Night!"

And then, grabbing a hold of Francis and Antonio, Gilbert walked out the door, turning the light off as he did.

In the dark, Matthew blinked, once, twice, slowly sat up and adjusted his glasses.

Outside, voices carried.

"Dios mio, Gilbert, what were you thinking -"

"But the kid said he was tired! I thought -"

"You think?"

"3.80, Francis - what'd _you _get last semester?"

"Ay, Maria, you two are drunk. I wish I was."

"Hey! Whose fault is it that our last designated driver bailed on us, Antonio?"

"That was only because _you two _were teasing him about his sexuality -"

"Hey, he didn't seem all that bothered when we mentioned a strip show - when we got to the actual stripping, though -"

"Ah, quite sad, actually. That I am beautiful, I have no doubt - but that my beauty would dazzle someone into shock, now was quite unexpected -"

"You? Obviously, it was me he was staring at -"

In the dark, Matthew blinked, once, twice. Then, slowly, took off his glasses, laid down and pulled the blankets over him.

He stayed awake, though. For quite a while afterwards. It wasn't as if he could have got to sleep, anyways, what with the shouting outside his door.

Well. This was quite a bit different from high school.

Perhaps his parents had been right, after all.

* * *

><p>So, um, yeah, I hope you liked it! I do realize, though, that I'm a bit out of my league here with - well, half the stuff I'm writing, being a high school student who doesn't really speak French or have bipolar disorder. And though books and Google are quite helpful, I realize that they don't really capture the essence of what it's like to dohave any of the above. So, if anyone goes to NYU/has bipolar/speaks French and would be interested in maybe beta-ing a tad for me, I would love them forever for it.

Also, for anyone who's interested, I chose NYU because it's supposed to be a very diverse school - one where students from several dozen countries can all quite realistically be together.

And...that's about it. Thank you for reading!


	2. Slightly Sober, Still Completely Crazy

OKAY.

So I wasn't planning to post this, but then I realized that it's Gil's birthday! So here is your next chapter, with crappy unedited French and all!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY PRUSSIA!

* * *

><p>Writing the Essay is Matthew's first class, straight at seven sharp. Which, come to think of it, is rather criminal, but he has a coffee and a bagel from the campus café, sips sugar and milky bitterness in the cool air as he walks towards theses and supporting sentences.<p>

It had been a calm morning; Gilbert had not been in the room when Matthew had woken up, but he supposed that was understandable, what with being dead-drunk and all the last time Matthew had seen him. Besides, Matthew thought as he tossed his coffee cup into a recycling bin, six o'clock was an unholy hour to get up at.

That was his own fault, though, he supposed. Should have accepted the offer earlier, maybe would have gotten a room closer to the campus and an Expository Writing class at a less ridiculous time

(And maybe a roommate who could actually stay half-way sober, a less than charitable part of Matthew thought, but he pushed the thought away, shocked at its unkindness. Gilbert had come back, after all - had talked to him, invited him for fun, and even if he was a little over-enthusiastic and loud and sudden and had disappointed Matthew when he wasn't there in the morning, he seemed, all-in-all, not that bad, and he would be back later, of course he would, he had to didn't he? - he'd said and maybe he'd meant -

Not that Matthew should get his hopes up. He might have forgotten, after all. It'd happened before.)

The sun is up.

Matthew eats his bagel, and walks to class.

XXX

Writing the Essay wasn't, all things considered, as bad as he had expected. Of course, there was the irritated boy who sat behind him and grumbled curses in Italian during the entire lecture, and there had been the perfunctory awkward introductions Matthew had always hated in high school, but that was okay, he supposed. Their teacher was a friendly, soft-spoken man who looked like he should have been in college himself - Tino Vaina-something, though it didn't matter since he'd asked the students to call him Tino. He had a nice smile. Matthew remembered, since the professor had smiled at him.

They hadn't done much that day, only reviewed the basics - theses, hooks, the importance of transitions and lively vocabulary. A prolonged review session, in essence. Matthew didn't need it, had done fairly well in English throughout high school, but he paid attention, nonetheless. It was only polite.

Even if half of the class didn't seem to think so.

Matthew sighed, smiled a little in remembrance over his sandwich. He certainly had some…interesting classmates.

Although, to be honest, he was still a little confused over what exactly a "fucking potato bastard" was and how, exactly, vegetables were connected to legitimacy of birth.

(Not that he'd dare ask, of course. Even if he was sitting right behind him, Lovino Vargas - the Italian boy with the foul mouth - had had an expression that would have sent a mastiff running in terror. Matthew had turned around once during the entire class, and had never done so again.)

But. Even if he hadn't said anything the entire class, it had been a nice one. A good start to a new life as a college student. A good day. Beautiful weather: sunny, calm, peaceful -

"Hey, roomie! Wha'cha doing eating all by yourself?"

Matthew could _feel _every eye in the cafeteria turn towards him. It was a physical thing, an actual sensation of changing sight.

"Hi, Gilbert," he said, turning around and trying to smile in spite of the laps his heart was running around his chest.

"Nah, not Gilbert, new kid," Gilbert said, his grin as wild as his eyes as he let go of Matthew's shoulders. "Too - too formal, _yaknow?_ It's Gil, kid, Gil. I like it better, anyway. It's all nice! and snappy! - and one-syllable and all that shit, don'chathink?"

"Dios mio, Gilbert, I thought you were finished with traumatizing the poor boy?"

"Ah, come on, Tonio," Gilbert said, turning towards the other student what was clearly supposed to be a pleading, innocent expression, "I was just being _friend_ly."

"You could try doing it in a less noisy manner," Francis commented, sauntering easily forward, but despite his words, there was a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Bonjour, Matthew," he said, grinning as he raised a hand, lazily, in greeting. "Comment vais-tu?"

"Uh - b-bien, tres bien."

" Oh? Parles-tu francais?"

"Oui, un peu. Ma mere est canadienne."

"Hey! Francis! I don't know what you're saying, but if you're sexually harassing my roommate, then I'm going to -"

"Ave Maria purisima, could you keep the volume down a little, Gilbert? Everyone can hear, and Matthew's face is turning red. It's rather… cute."

"Hey! Don't you start going all rapist on me, too!" Gilbert said, glaring briefly at the Spaniard before he turned back to Matthew, trademark grin on his face. "Don't mind them," he said, grinning as he pointed to the now not-even-surreptitiously gaping crowd, "they're just a little overawed at my awesomeness right now."

"Are you drunk again? Antonio, I thought you said you wouldn't let him drink any more - and that's not fair, you didn't even offer meee any -"

"I'm not drunk," Gilbert said, folding his arms across his chest, grin still intact, "merely awesome."

"Alright, ninos, alright," Antonio said, smiling as he put both hands in the air, "stop fighting now, por favor - as adorable as Matthew looks right now, I think you better finish telling him what you wanted to before his face turns any redder."

"T - tell me what?"

"What?" Gilbert asked, and his 'what' echoed throughout the cafeteria. "Don't tell me you don't know?"

"I - well - I, um -"

"There _is _the part where you were too drunk to walk and didn't tell him anything, Gilbert."

"Oh. Right," Gilbert said, momentarily losing some of his energy. He regained it, though, in the next instant, grinning as he clapped his hands on Matthew's shoulders.

"We're going clubbing tonight, roomie! And _you're _coming!"

"Only if you want to, of course," Antonio quickly added.

"Psh, who wouldn't want to spend time with the awesome me?"

"_Moi."_

"Ah, don't be sarcastic, Francis - you do it all the time. You know all the pretty girls flock to me."  
>"<em>You? <em>Excusez-moi, Gilbert, but you are sadly mistaken - it is _moi _that all les dames come to -"

"At ten!" Antonio called, managing somehow to wave goodbye to Matthew even as he herded Francis and Gilbert out of the cafeteria. "We'll meet you in your room, okay?"

Matthew tried to nod, but somehow found that he couldn't move. Not with a million pairs of eyes suddenly on him and the snickers starting to break out as Gilbert and his friends slowly moved into the distance. And although he couldn't see his face, Matthew bet it was just as beet-red as Antonio had described.

* * *

><p>Okay, commenting tymes!<p>

First off, thank you many, many times to everyone who reviewed, alerted, favorite, etc – you guys are incredible and super-special awesome and Hima-worthy. In other words, I love you all.

To the anon mouse who reviewed: thank you a great deal for your advice, and I will hope that I will be able to write bipolar disorder with the respect it deserves. I don't have it, but from what I've read, it can be hell – and for going through that, you have my full respect. However, I might deviate a tad from your advice because right now Gilbert is not exactly manic so much as he is hypomanic – he's manic, yes, but it's not quite the type of major manic break that gets him hospitalized. IDK, I'm drawing a lot from Marya Hornbaucher's _Madness _right now, along with a tad of Patty/Anna Duke's _A Brilliant Madness, _which all had good reviews on Amazon, but feel free to call me out if I epically fail anything (are you sure you don't want to beta? We could do it via email or Livejournal if you don't have an account – I mean, no pressure on you, just if you would enjoy it :)

Okay! Lastly, a question. And I'm kind of embarrassed to ask this, as it kinds of shows my ignorance of all things normal teenage-ly, but…

What goes down at a night club? The interwebs tells me that most of them have some sort of a dress code, but Youtube videos tell me otherwise, so I'm currently mega-confused. Any other details to help this failure for a high school senior would also be lovely.


	3. Breaking Multiple Laws

Matthew stopped in front of his door.

Then, books in hand, he sighed and - against all reason - opened the door.

And was immediately attacked by a flurry of white hair and black cloth.

"Come on, roomie, whaddya think you're doing - you _can't _go into a club looking like that! T-shirt and jeans are _so _not dress-code 'tire - Francis, find my extra pair of slacks, we're about the same size - but, seriously, roomie, what the hell, kid - we were worried you were being eaten by Tylers and his string-theory shit or whatever random hell he's babbling on about now - Intro to Quantum Mechanics _blows, _trust me, you'll want to kill yourself within ten minutes of walking in, Tylers _sucks-_ "

"Por el amor de Dios, Gilbert," Antonio groaned, leaning back on Gilbert's bed (which along with his side of the room had been transformed into a virtual bastion of eagles, posters, and incongruous panda plushies). "that was a _year _ago."

"Doesn't change the fact that he's a mind-eating bastard who _deliberately _tried to fail me-"

"Maybe if you'd actually attended class once in a while-"

"Fuck, why would I do that? I got an A in Expos without attending half of Tino's classes-"

"Voila!" Francis announced, emerging from the mess of suitcases on the ground with a pair of pressed, black slacks and a green polo. "Perfect, non?"

"_Finally, _Francis. Hmm, let me see- Okay, they'll work! Go change!"

And, snatching the clothes from Francis, Gilbert shoved them and Matthew into the bathroom and closed the door.

* * *

><p>Point one: In all the months since his eighteenth birthday, Matthew had never gone clubbing before.<p>

Point two: He had no desire to start.

Point three: Especially not now, when he had an essay to work on and a biology chapter due in two weeks.

Incidentally, there was also the fact that the club was twenty-one and up only, and he wasn't even legally allowed in.

Not that any of those points stopped Gilbert from somehow talking their way in (although Matthew secretly thought it was because after five minutes of Gilbert's nonstop harangue on injustice, international rights, and the inferiority of the American political system to the German one, the bouncer at the door had decided to just let them in instead of listening to Gilbert ramble on any longer).

So. Here he was, Matthew Williams, in a nightclub, sipping his first alcoholic drink ever and breaking his first (two) laws.

He felt very, very disorientated.

It could have just been the rum and coke Gilbert had ordered for him, which burned like cold fire with every cautious sip he took, but somehow, he doubted it.

This was not how he had expected college to go, clutching something he wasn't old enough to legally drink yet while he listened to some weird hybrid of rap-metal-techno music and watched his roommate and his friends doing strange and (in Francis's case, at the least) _extremely_ suggestive things on the dance floor with obnoxiously flashing lights that could easily give anyone a seizure. Of course he'd known college would be different. He had expected it to be, but this-

It was just a little much to take in all at once, that was all.

No, Matthew thought, averting his eyes as Francis somehow managed to do something exceeding obscene while still doing the Macarena, it was _definitely _much too much to take in.

Matthew sighed, sipped at his (illegal) drink, made a face -

And nearly screamed when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Hi," Gilbert grinned, taking a seat as Matthew attempted to gain his breath back. "Two of your best bocks for us - plain and doppel, 'kay? On me. Beer in America's generally shit," he drawled, turning to Matthew once the bartender's back was turned. "but this place looks fancy. Might have some decent imports."

"O-Oh."

"Nothing like what they have in Germany, though. I visited senior year summer. Berlin Wall, Brandenburg- Sanssouci's fucking beautiful, you know that? You should visit sometime. Doppel for me," Gilbert said, taking one of the glasses from the bartender and handing the other to Matthew. "Drink it," he said, tipping his own glass back, "it's not strong. You're our des driver, after all."

Cautiously, Matthew took a sip. Gilbert was right- The drink wasn't too harsh, though it still made Matthew's head spin a little when he drank it. Other than that though, it wasn't too bad. Sweet, and somehow warm.

He took another sip, this time a little less cautiously.

"See? German beer. It's awesome. Like most German things. Cheers!"

A small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, Matthew lifted his glass to meet Gilbert's.

"So," Gilbert leaned forward, finishing his beer while gesturing for another one, "how's the system treating you so far?"

"Um, it's not bad," Matthew replied, drinking his bock with a little less trepidation now. Gilbert was right; it really was good stuff. Much better than the rum and coke. "Classes are okay, I guess, and the teachers all seem pretty nice-"

"Not taking many science classes this semester?"

"Eh? Well, no, not really."

"Smart move," Gilbert nodded approvingly, taking another glass of beer from the bartender. "Science department's hell - 'specially Tylers. Would have had a nice four-point-oh-oh if it weren't for that bastard. Chem major," he added, taking a draught of his drink. "You?"

"Psychology."

"Oh? Huh… Psychology," The Prussian mused while setting his drink down. And for almost half an instant, half a fraction of a second, Matthew thought he saw something change in Gilbert's eyes, something strange pass over Gilbert's face -

But then the moment passed, and Gilbert grinned and reached for his beer again.

"Psychology, huh? Awesome choice! Loads of money in that, and barely any hard science. Chem's pretty awesome in general, but orgo? Is. A. Bitch. And then there's the phys science requirement, and _certain assholes _told me that Tylers could actually teach-"

"Ah, don't tell me that you're _still _bitter about that, mon cher?" Francis asked, pouting as he appeared (like Gilbert, Matthew observed; clearly, getting a heart attack was in his stars this year) out of seemingly nowhere and wrapped an arm around Gilbert's shoulders. "Only a joke, oui?"

"Yeah, yeah. A joke. Ha ha. Hey, want to know a good one? A douche bag Frenchman and his jerkwad Spaniard friend try trolling a Prussian freshman-"

"Tylers _does _teach, Gil," Antonio sighed, like France sidling up out of nowhere and ordering a drink. "You just have to show up for class. Also, Prussia was abolished in 1947."

"C'est-a-dire, before you were born."

Gilbert stuck his tongue out at Francis and after the briefest of pauses, slammed his beer down and stood up.

"This place," he began while slowly turning around, white hair stark in the chiaroscuro lighting, "is boring."

"Oui?" Francis asked from behind the rim of his wineglass. "Mon ami, I thought it was your idea to come here. Someplace plus classe que our usual haunts, hm?"

"Well, yeah, but that was because, _as Antonio reminds me every other second, _we don't, you know, mentally scar Mattie or anything. But, fuck, I didn't know it'd be this boring."

"Oh?" Antonio questioned, a smiling playing upon his lips. "And what do you plan to do about it?"

Gilbert smiled, a smile half-wolf and half-devil. Under the dim lights, his eyes gleamed red.

"Make it interesting."

Which, in retrospect, should have been Matthew's signal to stand up, put his beer down, and quietly leave.

He didn't. One of the stupider things he'd done in his life.

Antonio and Francis looked at each other for a fraction of a second before simultaneously breaking out into wide, easy grins.

"Alright," Antonio said, putting his drink down and walking over to Gilbert, "let's see what you have."

* * *

><p>Translations:<p>

'Por el amor de Dios' - for the love of God

'C'est-a-dire' - that is to say

'Plus classe que' - with more class

* * *

><p>Yay four am updates! Oh, God, I need to sleep more...<p>

Once again, thank you to all the people who reviewed, favorite, or alerted - you guys are awesome-tastic and incredible-ful and generally afgaga-I-can't-think-up-of-a-word-level-sweet.

Special thanks, though, to chelseaj500 for being an awesome beta for this chapter :)


	4. Disco Pogo, Dingalingaling

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! Chapter's extra long for you guys!

Thank you to my beta for putting up with such a long chapter :)

* * *

><p>There were many, many reasons why Matthew opposed the plan.<p>

Chief among them was the fact that _he _had been recruited to help.

"Et puis?" Francis asked, voice low. "After that, Gil?"

"After that," Gilbert said, voice for once also muted as he reached for another glass of beer, "we run _like hell."_

"Sounds like a plan," Antonio grinned as he stood up. "Let's do it."

"Um," Matthew said.

"Hm?" Gilbert asked, turning towards him. "Need us to go over the plan again?"

"No -"

"Then what?"

Well. There were quite a lot of 'what's involved. Such as, for example, _what do you think you're doing _and _what in the world am I being dragged into this for._ He didn't want any part of this, after all; he was Matthew Williams, quiet honor student Matthew Williams who sat in a corner and never talked or did anything like this, anything illegal or wrong or dangerous-

Or, for that matter, anything exciting.

And perhaps it was the alcohol or perhaps it was the strangeness, the culture shock of college, or perhaps it was just Gilbert, the influence and fault of his boundless energy. But at that moment, something in Matthew revolted, said no no no no _no _to safety and caution and the million other things that had defined his life so far.

"Nothing," Matthew said, "nothing. I was just... just wondering when we'd start."

Gilbert grinned, downed the rest of his drink, and put the empty glass back on the counter.

"Right now."

* * *

><p>It had been a slow night.<p>

Oh, of course, there had been the normal occurrences: the incipient drunken fights, the underage college students trying to sneak it, hooking and breaking and feeling up under dim lights. Ordinary human things of ordinary human beings.

Underneath the flashing lights, Leo Trago sighed.

He had never wanted this. Had never thought he would end up like this, thirty and married with 2.5 children and DJing at a club for rich white kids -

He had been a philosopher, a critic, a _freethinker, _fordeityssake. Majoring in Nietzsche in college (a degree of his own innovation, part of the create-your-own-major program NYU had offered), he had always thought he was meant for something greater. Something better. With his thoughts so deep, he thought he might have at least become a prophet, a Messiah come bearing the seeds of order -

And here he was. Playing trashy pop music for a bunch of overdressed drunks.

Whatever the pay, it was _definitely _a step down from Burger King.

Leo Trago sighed again. Not that it mattered, anyway. With the scum of the human race getting high on vodka and LSD and got-knows-what-else down there, there was no one to care about him, no one to listen to the pondering of a philosophy major trying to eke out a living -

"Hola, Señor!"

Thirty, Leo decided, gasping as a pair of concerned green eyes peered at it, was _far _too young to have a heart attack.

The brats of this place, however, seemed quite content on making him an exception.

"Are you alright, Señor? You look quite pale - do you need any help? O dios mio, are you having a heart attack? Should I call an ambulance -"

"No," Leo said, with some effort managing to compose his features and without any effort managing to glare at the boy who had crept up on him and who was currently _far _too deep into his personal space for comfort, "no, I'm perfectly fine -"

"Oh, gracias a Dios!" the boy exclaimed, clasping his hands together in front of his face, "I was really worried there, for a moment, you know, that I'd killed you."

Leo stared at him. Stared at wide smile, bright eyes, beaming, wide, innocent face-

Yes, drunk. Definitely drunk. Yet despite that all, he didn't seem -

"What," Leo asked slowly, cautiously, "do you want?"

"Oh, how rude of me!" the boy exclaimed. "I have completely forgotten to introduce myself! Well! My name is Antonio Fernandez Carriedo, y me encanta conocerte. And as for what I have come for, I have come to invite you for a drink!"

Leo blinked.

"Wh-What?"

"Oh, indeed, Señor!" Antonio said, that sunny, bright grin still on his face, "you sit here all night and you work so hard for us, without not even a siesta or even anyone to keep you company - and so I think to myself, Antonio, wouldn't it be nice to invite the kind DJ for a drink? Since he works so hard for us all the night long."

Huh. That _was _true; it was damn hard work DJing from nine at night to five in the morning. And, honestly, despite his propensity to induce heart-attacks and a face that looked five years too young for the Evening Star, _this _kid didn't seem like the bad sort. Maybe he ought -

(but the job -)

Ah, what the hell. The kids groping and grinding on the dance floor could manage for a few moments without him - and, after nearly a full shift at this place, he needed a drink or two.

And as Antonio Fernandez Carriedo lead Leo Trajo towards the bar, he paused and turned back one short moment, winking.

And that was it. And that was all.

"_Tres_ bien," Francis said, grinning. "Pret, Gilbert?"

A smile, like knives in the dark.

"_Ja."_

* * *

><p>"<em>So, <em>and then I told him, and then he just kind of looked at me like _that - _"

Eric Anderson was having a good day.

Here he was: twenty-five, good-looking, the recipient of a new promotion and a new raise, having a good time, having a good drink, and talking with dozens of _bea-_uuu_-_tiful women.

There was the slight fact, of course, that none of the beautiful women had so far said a word back to him, but Eric was too far drunk to notice little details like that. No, the details he noticed were the other ones, the more interesting ones - like the way the tall blonde girl he was currently hitting on was wearing a dress cut down _just like that, _so that if he leaned over, he could almost -

"Hey," Eric greeted, grinning as he put down his drink. "So whaditya say your name was again?"

The blonde girl glanced at him, then slowly picked up her drink and walked away.

"I'm Eric!" he called after her, smirking as his eyes slipped down toward her (very short) skirt. "Eric Anderson! Look me up!"

God, Eric thought, grinning as he returned to his drink, he was a real charmer. All the women in this club _had _to be panting after him by now. Half of them were probably already looking him up on Facebook, typing "Eric Anderson" into smart phone search engines. Poor schmucks. They'd be competing with a whole bevy of other women. He really pitied them. Sometimes.

With another grin, he reached for his drink, only to find that his glass was empty.

Son of a bitch. That was a pain. But Eric was feeling magnanimous today, so he decided that he could forgive the universe for the transgression.

"'Nother drink here," he said, leaning over and smiling sloppily at the bartender. "M're whiskey this time."

The bartender turned and gave him a Look with capital L, the type of Look mothers or school teachers gave errant children.

"Your twelfth one, isn't it?"

"Dunno." Probably. He'd lost count after seven.

"Ah. Well, I'm not sure I should give you another. Okay? Seeing as we have a reputation for not having patrons being carted out in ambulances."

The bartender smiled blandly and turned away.

Eric stared.

The fuck? This was a bar, wasn't it? What the hell did the guy think he was-

Well. Fine. If this jackass of a bartender wasn't going to give him his drink (his drink that he'd pay for with his goddamn money, because where the hell did the bastard think they were, communist China?), then he might as well leave. Dance a little, maybe. Shower his presence on some of the unfortunate girls he hadn't met yet.

Yeah. That sounded like a good idea. Pretty girls, plenty of them probably willing to call him afterwards or maybe do more...

Bartender troubles all forgotten now, Eric stood up, just a little bit unsteadily, and began heading for the dance floor-

Just as the everything went completely dark.

* * *

><p>He'd known, of course. Known from the first words what was going to happen, known from the first flash of Gilbert's grin what he was planning, known from the first moment that this was going to be a bad, bad idea.<p>

Still. When the lights went out and the music abruptly cut off, leaving the too-loud laughter and shrill giggles of drunk people to come to the fore as the soundtrack, Matthew couldn't help but wonder, just one more time, what the hell he had gotten himself into.

* * *

><p>It took a while - perfectly natural, considering the average blood alcohol level in the room - but the silence came, eventually, the confusion and the sudden inability to see slowly permeating formulating itself into one, universal question:<p>

_What the hell?_

It was Eric Anderson, however, who was the first to verbalize these thoughts.

"The fuck?" he shouted into the silence. "The hell's going on?"

No answer. But that was when the whispers started, the slow slow slow murmurs, life slowly revitalizing itself into one general incoherent, inchoate _?_ of confusion.

Amidst the slowly mounting confusion, Leo Trago softly snored, head on the bar counter.

"Gracias a Dios," Antonio murmured, as he reached to finished the DJ's drink. It had all been very interesting, of course, but Antonio wasn't quite sure he was ready to listen through another seven shots of Spanish anisette about the influence of Nietzschean perspectivism on postmodern nihilism.

Now, though... Now, all he had to do was wait.

He only hoped that they didn't screw it up.

* * *

><p>"<em>Merde, <em>Gilbert, I thought you knew how to use these things -"

"What do I look like, a fucking mechanic? I'm not Luddy-"

"Tu me dis, then, that you - avant le debut, avant _tout_ - had no idea how to do this?"

"Well, yeah, but I hadn't figured things would be so _complicated-"_

"Gilbert, mon ami, do pardon my French, but _c'est quoi ce bordel?"_

"Hey! Shut up for a second, will you? ...I think I've nearly got it! ...Maybe it's this one?"

It wasn't.

But it did turn the lights back on - blinding, white spotlights focused directly on Gilbert and Francis.

* * *

><p>For the briefest of moments, silence. For the briefest of moments, shock.<p>

Francis' expression was an enigma: something foreign, half-way between shock and confusion and _oh shit, I am going to be killed now._

It didn't last for long.

Because in the next second, Gilbert Beilschmidt was grabbing the microphone and shouting at the crowd:

"Who here wants to have a _real_ party_?"_

And a split-second of silence later, the crowd broke into cheers.

* * *

><p>They'd been having a perfectly good time before, of course. There had been music and drinks and lots of R-rated dancing. Everything, in short, a club should have. But now there was a crazy albino boy and he had a microphone and control of the computer and <em>things were just going to get that much more much more interesting.<em>

* * *

><p>"<em>RAUFEN WIR UNS, ATZEN LASST ES KRACHEN -"<em>

One thing Matthew would never know: how, exactly, Gilbert had managed to sneak in a pack of forty glow sticks. Whether or not he wanted to know, he wasn't quite sure, but he bet it was probably much better than knowing where, exactly, Francis had learned to dance quite like…that.

The crowd seemed to quite enjoy it, though. With the spotlights on the stage finally working and now flashing green and blue while Gilbert and Francis danced some sort of break-dance/reggae/swing hybrid-duet-_thing _and the entire crowd somehow managing to filter into the 120 decibel music with their screams, Matthew was _sure _someone was going to have a seizure before the end of the night.

Probably him.

There was quite a lot of dress code violating. Even more so than before, now that Antonio had successfully gotten all the security guards drunk. Matthew had tried to avoid the most egregious cases, but with everyone now basically an egregious case, it had turned out to be a rather futile attempt.

So he settle for sitting at the bar and ordering another bock. Double.

"_UND ALLE ATZEN SING -"_

Another thing: where, exactly, Gilbert had found a song that actually included the _"dingalingaling" _in its lyrics? Matthew hadn't know that those were actual, legitimate words, much less the type you used in songs.

Well. Not the songs he listened to, in any case. Although, with each increase in his blood alcohol content, Gilbert's music seemed to get somehow easier to bear.

"_DISCO POGO, DINGALINGALING -"_

Marginally. Marginally was easier to bear.

Matthew then decided that he would never make a good drunk. Even on his third beer and with the edges of the world all fuzzy, he seemed to lack that fundamental ability to forget about other people enough to dance with his clothes off.

Common sense, he supposed. Too much of a good thing. Though, to be honest, he wasn't quite sure he would have wanted to be one of the people dancing in their underwear, anyway.

Grimacing at the mental images, Matthew reached for his beer -

Only for the lights to, once again, go dark.

Matthew sipped his drink, alcohol-addled brain registering but not caring about the technical difficulties.

And then the lights came back on, and this time, they were aimed straight at Matthew. And then, this time, there was no amount of alcohol that could have prepared Matthew for what happened next.

* * *

><p>By and large, Gilbert Beilschmidt was known at NYU as "an arrogant, insensitive, and rude jerk of a sophomore"; by all accounts (including those of his two best friends, the <em>asses<em>), he was.

That didn't mean, though, that he was a complete jackass. Well. At least not all the time. Or at least not to everyone. And despite his legendary ineptitude with feelings, it was hardly as though Gilbert was completely clueless when it came to human emotions - and, besides, you'd have to be _Luddy _to miss the look on Matthew's face.

Gilbert might have been insensitive, yes, and he could definitely be an rude and (alright, just a _tad) _arrogant and a total jerk, but that didn't mean he was planning to be any of these things towards Matthew. Matthew, who reminded him of his kid brother except shorter and less ridiculously buff and more fluffy-animal-cute than Luddy, coupled with the fact that he was Gilbert's chance to do it right, not _fuck it up _the way he had always had with -

Anyway. The thing was, while everyone else was busy dancing and shoving tongues down strangers' throats and getting drunk and generally enjoying themselves, Matthew wasn't. Well, maybe he was a little drunk, but since he wasn't doing any of the other three, he definitely wasn't drunk enough.

Instead, Matthew's glasses were askew and face red from getting drunk for probably the first time looked, well, not quite as though he were having the best time of his life. In fact, he looked rather… bored.

A situation Gilbert meant to soon amend, because if there was one thing that was true, it was that _no one _was ever bored when Gilbert Beilschmidt was around.

So there it was. Lights camera action and _boom._

Showtime.

Perhaps it was just the lighting, but as eighty pairs of eyes fixed on him, Matthew looked just the slightest bit pale.

Well, Gilbert could amend that, too.

Grinning, he flipped a switch on the dashboard (really, he didn't know why Francis was so clueless about the thing; it was all pretty simple when you got down to it), and the lights above their head turned on, too.

"Hey, everyone!" Gilbert yelled, and was met with a chorus of _hey_s and hoots. "Are we having fun?"

He waited, gave them a couple of minutes to shout their appreciation back. He was, after all, just that awesome.

When the sound had died down to a low roar, though, Gilbert reached for the microphone again.

"Awesome! You're an great bunch - got that?"

Cheers and catcalls.

"Ya know who else is pretty awesome, though? That guy over there! Everyone say hi to my awesome new roomie, Mattie Williams!"

As the crowd greeted him, Matthew's face went from ghost white to tomato red in what was probably an unhealthily short amount of time. Which, Gilbert supposed, was a good thing - it meant the alcohol was finally getting to the kid, didn't it? And Gilbert had always known that good things always came after alcohol.

"Alright, awesome, guys! Now, Mattie's new to the city, and I'm pretty sure this is his first night out on any town, so whaddya say we make it one he doesn't forget anything soon, _hmm?"_

Resonating cheers.

Matthew put his (now firetruck red) head down on the bar. Huh. Did that mean he was having fun? Gilbert decided he must be; being flushed, after all, meant blood to the head, excitement, and excitement meant fun, right? Right.

Awesome.

"So I was proposing," Gilbert said, when the cheering had died down a little, "that we kick this party up a few notches, huh? Sound good to you guys?"

The sweet, sweet sounds of the wildest cheers yet.

"Awesome," Gilbert said, grinning as he walked across the stage. "Then Mattie, come on up!"

* * *

><p>Of all the things that had happened today, this was probably the worst.<p>

Matthew decided (decided as Francis used that creepy popping-out-of-nowhere technique of his to ambush Matthew and begin dragging him to the middle of the room) that once he got back to campus, he was filing for a room change. Because, as little as he knew about college, he was sure _this _wasn't how it was supposed to go - or at least, even if it was, not the way _he _wanted it to go. Yes, Matthew thought, still trying to tug away his arm from Francis's (surprisingly strong) grip, that was what he was going to do, right after they got back -

"_Aaaand, ladies and gentlemen, _Maaaaatthew Williams!"

He took that back. He wasn't waiting until Gilbert and Francis and Antonio passed out and he could leave; he was leaving _right now_, just as soon as he got his arm out of Francis's grip-

Abruptly, Francis let go and Matthew stumbled backward, almost falling from the sudden lack of resistance.

He didn't, though. Mostly because Gilbert caught him at the last moment.

"You okay?" Gilbert shouted over the music, one hand still around Matthew's wrist.

Not really. Not _here, _in the middle of the stage, with the world turning like _that _and everyone blurring and (oh, God) _watching, _too-

"Mattie?"

"I'm fine."

"What?"

"I said I'm fine!"

"You've got to speak up!" Gilbert shouted. "I can't hear you! Here!" he said, grabbing the microphone and thrusting it towards Matthew just as he began to speak, so that his words reverberated around the room -

"_I - SAID - I'M - FINE!"_

"Oh," Gilbert said, letting go (far too quickly) of Matthew's wrist. "Awesome!" he said, not seeming to notice either the staring crowd nor the way the world was all topsy-turvy as he thumped Matthew on the back. Oh, God, that didn't help his balance at all-

Neither, really, did the next words out of Gilbert's mouth.

"Ready for a dance party, then?"

"_What?"_

"Awesome!" Gilbert yelled back, and, grinning, turned the music up. And began dancing.

Oh God.

"Hey," Gilbert asked several minutes later, looking up from his head-banging-disco-pogoing-whatever to see Matthew standing deer-in-the-headlights stock-still, "why aren't you dancing?"

"I - um - can't dance."

"What?"

Mentally, Matthew sighed, then shouted back, as loudly as he could:

"I can't dance!"

"_What?"_

"_I," _pointing to himself, "_can't," _shaking his head, "_dance!" _pointing to the dance floor.

"You're can't walk?"

Shake of head.

"You're to drunk to walk?"

Another shake.

"There's a girl in the crowd you like, but you can't talk to her? Hey, it's okay, all I'd have to do is make an announcement, and - hell, why didn't you tell me earlier? It'd be easy as -"

"No!"

"-and if you've got any problems, go to Antonio or me, _not _Francis - hm? What's up?"

One hand on Gilbert's shoulder, Matthew slowly shook his head.

"You don't want me to tell her? Ah, but c'mon, Mattie, how's that going to do you any good? This could be your only chance - here, just point her out to me, and I'll -"

Matthew spotted something over Gilbert's shoulder, and a light went in his head.

_Ah-ha._

Taking his hand off Gilbert's shoulder, Matthew reached for the notebook and paper that laid next to the record player. Ignoring the pages full of mathematical equations and psychology, he ripped out a blank page, and wrote, in big, block letters:

"THERE IS NO GIRL. THAT WASN'T WHAT I WAS TRYING TO SAY."

"Oh." A pause, confusion. Then, "…you can't dance?"

Nod. _Vigorous _nod, his face still red from the former misunderstanding. Maybe now Gilbert would understand, and they could just go back to their dorm, call it a night-

"But everyone can dance!"

Well. _That_ particular illusion shattered rather quickly.

"It's easy! All you gotta do is move to the music! It's fun! C'mon," and suddenly Gilbert's hands were on his wrist, pulling his arms into the air, "just wave, or whatever - it doesn't matter, it's not like anyone else's doing anything different."

"But-"

"Like this," Gilbert said, guiding Matthew's hands up and down, Matthew's protestations eaten by the sound of _DINGALINGALING_-ing. "And then just move up or down, twist or _something - _just whatever, it's not particle physics here - don't take that class, _ever - _see? Like that," Gilbert's hands still slowly guiding his, up, down, a steady rhythm, and despite everything, Matthew found himself moving to the beat, found himself almost - almost enjoying himself. Gilbert was right, this wasn't hard, this was easy - hey, this was almost _fun -_

"Great!" Gilbert crowed. Matthew noticed with a start that Gilbert had let him go and was dancing himself now, glow sticks a blur of motion as he moved. Grinning despite himself, Matthew began to join in, synchronizing his movements to match Gilbert's -

When the music cut off, and the lights flashed on, off: once, twice.

The music came back on a split second later, of course, but the signal had been given. Gilbert's signal, the one he had perfected when Antonio had mentioned the two sets of light switches and the one that Matthew, as lookout, had been supposed to give.

Someone else had given it, now, but it didn't matter who. Not now. Not with security coming.

"Oh _shit," _Gilbert muttered and grabbing Matthew's hand, jumped off the stage. "Let's _scram."_

* * *

><p>Somehow, they made it back to the dorms all in one piece. This was despite the fact that Gilbert drove, three glasses of beer having made walking in a straight line an impossibility for Matthew, and the fact that Francis was in the car, ominously shirtless. (There was a story behind that, but Matthew really didn't want to know it.)<p>

Finally, at around three o'clock in the morning, they arrived at their dorms.

"Ay, que divertido!" Antonio laughed, still miraculously standing despite a blood alcohol level of probably five times the legal limit. "They won't forget _that _for a while."

"Non," Francis agreed, and then hiccupped. "Not - with - my beauty there." He hiccupped again, but Antonio caught him, and Francis stayed there, half-sleepy and fully-drunk in Antonio's arms.

"Now, Gilbert, don't stay up too late- tienes clases mañana, after all."

"Ja, mutti," Gilbert muttered, turning to Matthew and rolling his eyes.

"Gilbert, I'm serious. Even if you don't need it, Matthew needs his sleep."

"Ah, c'mon Toni!" Gilbert whined, "You don't really think I'd do that to Mattie, d'ya?"

"_Oui_."

"Bastard."

"No fighting, now."

"_He _started it."

"Very mature, Gilbert."

"Hey, you're the upperclassman here-"

"I think," Antonio said, "that we ought to leave now, Francis, sí? We wouldn't want to intrude on Matthew's sleep, after all."

"Ah, oui," Francis said, suddenly brightening at the mention of Matthew's name. "I do suppose we must leave, then. Au revoir, Mattieu! Dors bien, mon cher."

"Et toi," Matthew said, a little taken aback by the lack of double entendres in the farewell. Francis waved as he and Antonio left and Matthew waved back.

"_Typical _Francis," Gilbert muttered, rolling his eyes once again. Then, brightening, "let's watch a movie."

And that was how - instead of starting his English composition, reading his biology textbook, or finding derivatives - Matthew ended up watching _The Hangover II, _which he decided was much better drunk.

* * *

><p>Translations:<p>

et puis = and then

me encanta conocerte - I'm glad to know you (past tense of conocer = met, so I guess it could also be meet you?)

gracias a Dios = thanks to God

pret = ready

merde = shit

avant le debut, avant _tout_ = before the beginning, before everything

_c'est quoi ce bordel_ = what the hell (roughly)

que divertido = how fun!

tienes clases mañana = you have classes tomorrow

ja, mutti = yes, mother

dors bien = sleep well

For those not in on the Disco Pogo joke, it's kind of the unofficial anthem of 2011's Christmas Event. Look up "Disco Pogo Hetalia" on YouTube for the full glory :)


	5. Trioed

"And so, we could then say that Freud's theories - although supplemented and changed over time - gave birth to modern psychotherapy-"

It was eight o'clock in the morning and Matthew could already tell it was going to be a long day.

Correction: it _had _been a long time, eight full hours of it, made longer by having been mostly spent in Gilbert's company. Oh, he'd been nice enough - like telling (ordering) Matthew to sleep when he had started nodding off during the movie - but he'd also been sadly lacking in the details. Like playing Halo on full volume while Matthew was trying to get said sleep.

Thank God there was a coffee shop nearby. Matthew had a feeling he would be visiting it quite often.

He yawned, but by some force of will managed to not put his head down on his desk and give in to the tempting idea of sleep. Because, really, given how tired and generally hungover he was, that would have meant instantly falling asleep.

"-over time, however, Freud's psychoanalytical theory was often supplemented and reformulated by new discoveries and new scientists. Carl Jung, for example-"

Notes. He really ought to be taking notes. Only it was suddenly oh so very hard to both listen and write…and maybe it wouldn't be all that bad if he put his head down, just for a little while. It might help with the headache, and-

"Hey! Bastard! I can't fucking see!"

Although _that_ didn't help with the headache much.

"That doesn't _help, _you idiot!" the angry Italian guy (AIG, perhaps?) hissed back. "_Maledizione, _will you just move out of the fucking way?"

Why exactly you needed to see during a lecture was beyond Matthew, but he decided not to mention that.

Instead, he muttered a quiet "sorry" and quickly shuffled his chair several inches to the right. Where, presumably, AIG would be better able to see Professor Hellen and Matthew would be able to actually rest. Well. Not rest, per se. Maybe just get into a more comfortable position, put his head down for just a moment-

"Psst! Hey!"

Or not.

"Mfft?" Matthew asked.

"Oh," the pig-tailed girl behind him said. "You _do _look tired."

"I _am _tired," Matthew replied, trying hard not to let his tiredness turn into irritation. "Was there something you were going to tell me?"

"Oh! Yeah! It's only-" the girl said, leaning in conspiratorially close, "that my brother had Hellen once - Ancient Civ or something like that - and he told me that even if she acts like she's all chill and hip, she makes your life a living, well, Hell if you don't pay attention. I think he got kicked out, what, second, third week? I don't know why it wasn't sooner; he was making passes at her all the time. You don't look like the kind of guy to do that, though. But anyway, you should try to keep on her good side otherwise-"

"Hey! Will you keep it the fuck down!"

"Well, _excuse me, _I wasn't talking to _you. _And, anyway, I never realized that talking wasn't a free action anymore-"

" Yeah, well, it fucking is when you're so damn loud I can't hear what the hell's going on-"

"Is _that _any way to talk to a girl? God, I've met a lot of real jerks in my time, but _I swear, _you're quickly topping the list-"

"-_dio mio, _do you ever shut up? Goddamnit, I'm swear, I'm going to-"

"-going to what, huh? My big brother could beat up _three _of you-"

It was then, Matthew realized with a sense of dull horror, that the rest of the room had gone dead silent. And was watching them.

There were several cell phone cameras out, and they were all recording

"-will you shut the fuck up already? _Dio mio, _do you _know _how grating your whiney voice is-"

"-mature, aren't you? I could _hit _you so badly right now-"

"-ah, vaffanculo! Your fucking voice is getting on my nerves-"

"-why'd you want to listen to Hellen so bad, anyway? Got a crush or something?"

Slowly - very, very slowly - Professor Hellen put down her chalk.

"- I am going to _kill _you, tear off your limbs one by one and burn the pieces-"

"-why? Because it's true, huh? -"

"- stomp on the ashes, and then scatter them in the ocean-"

"That won't," Professor Hellen said, suddenly alarming close and smiling alarmingly friendlily, "be necessary."

Slowly both heads looked up.

And that was when the room became completely silent.

Matthew tried to make himself as small as possible.

"Now," Professor Hellen slowly straightened up, "as enlightening as your conversation was, I would like to once again remind you of a few of my classroom rules. Foremost among them, I would like you to note, is one about classroom discussion."

Still that smile. That wide, amiable smile that managed to be utterly terrifying at the same time.

"Now," she continued, "I am quite sure you are all aware of the rumors about myself and this class. I feel no need, then, to inform you of them, except perhaps to verify that I do not, contrary to legend, eat puppies. As it is, I give one warning only."

She smiled, the most sickeningly sweet and terrifying one yet.

"Consider yourselves warned."

* * *

><p>"Well, to be honest," Michelle said as they walked to lunch, "it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be - I mean, she was pretty damn scary, I'll give her that - but I was expecting her to rip us apart, you know? We got off easy, really. Though it's nice to know she doesn't eat puppies," she added, pulling idly at one of her hair bows. "Are you stopping here?"<p>

"Hm? Uh, I guess," Matthew responded, a little startled his feet were somehow leading him towards the campus' Starbucks. "Would you like anything?"

"Nah, that's okay," Michelle said, flashing a quick grin. "My brother's invited me to lunch, so I've got to be going, anyway. See you around, 'kay?"

"Uh, sure." He waved as she left, then sighed once she was fully out of sight. He really should have worked on his social skills a little more before he came here. Eighteen years of close to no friends outside his family hadn't done much for his skill in social interactions.

Oh well.

Matthew opened the Starbucks' door and stood there in the doorway for a moment, inhaling the rich scent of coffee and pastries-

"Chigi! There are people waiting here, or are you fucking blind?"

Oh God _no._

He tried to be unobtrusive as he walked in, he really did, but for once in his life, obtrusiveness was not favoring Matthew Williams.

"Hey," Angry Italian Guy, also known as Lovino Vargas, growled while narrowing his dark amber eyes, "you're that bastardo from Hellen's, aren't you?"

Matthew looked at his shoes, and tried very hard to blend into the wall.

"Look the fuck at me when I'm talking to you, jackass! Fuck, do you _know _how much I paid for that class? I swear, if I get kicked out and it's all your fucking fault, then I am going to rip both you and that Michelle bitch apart, piece. By. Fucking. Piece."

Matthew concentrated very, very hard on his shoes.

"Hey," a voice said, not so very far off and softly feminine, "that's not a very nice thing to say, now is it?"

"Yeah? Look, miss, I don't know who you are, but I don't see why you'd care -"

"Well," the girl said, slowly standing up, coffee in hand, "by principle, I really don't like assholes. So if I were you, I'd stop being one."

"Look, are you trying to make me angry? Because if you are -"

"I'm not," the girl interrupted, serenely walking towards him. "But if I were," she said, sipping her coffee as she stood right in front of AIG (looking frighteningly small, frighteningly slight), "I'd do something," and suddenly she was all quick motion, tossing off the lid of her coffee and grabbing a hold of AIG in one fluid action, "like _this," _she continued, reaching up and dumping the drink on the spluttering boy's head, "hm?"

"_You - you bitch-"_

"I don't approve of language either," the girl said, narrowing her eyes, "so if you-"

"_Fuck you."_

"I guess not," she said, sighing, and then suddenly let go of his arm so hard that he stumbled backward – but not for long, because in the next moment, she had pushed him roughly towards the door so that he fell against the door, bells tinkling as he sat there, staring up at her. "Just be glad I had iced this time. Now get out."

He stared at her, stared at her with wide, wide eyes, ice and coffee dripping down his shirt.

She tsked, and turned towards the barista.

"May I have another coffee?"

And he was gone at that, up and gone in a tinkling of bells.

Very slowly, the girl walked over and gently closed the door.

"Are you okay?" she asked, turning to Matthew.

"U-Uh, yeah, I'm fine."

"Good," she said, and smiled; a warm smile, a real smile. "Would you like to join me for a coffee, then?"

"Um -"

"Make that two coffees, John," the girl said, turning to the barista again. "Strong, with plenty of cream."

"Iced or hot, Joan?"

"Iced or hot?" Joan asked, turning to Matthew.

"Um, hot, I guess."

"Two hot coffees, then. Hazelnut for mine, and your best brew for- oh, I'm sorry, I almost forgot to ask. I'm Joan. And you are?"

"M-Matthew. Matthew Williams."

"Well, Matthew, it's a pleasure to meet you. Welcome to NYU. I promise you," Joan pointed to the door, "we're not all like _that_. Two pieces of coffee cake, too. No, I'll pay," she said, gently holding out a hand to stop Matthew from reaching for his wallet. "My treat. Thanks, John."

"There're a few seats by the window," John gestured inwards as he handed her the coffees and pastries. "They look pretty comfy."

"Come on, then," Joan said, walking towards them. "Let's sit down."

Hesitantly, Matthew followed her to the tables. He accepted the coffee and cake with a soft murmur of thanks, still feeling a bit strange about letting Joan pay.

"So," Joan started, tearing open a sugar packet and stirring its contents into her coffee, "you're a freshman, I take it?"

Matthew nodded and took a cautious sip of his coffee. It was hot, but not scalding, and smoothly bitter; good coffee, though at this point Matthew would have taken anything with caffeine in it.

"Yeah," Joan said, absentmindedly stirring cream into her coffee. "That can be pretty rough. There're the classes, of course, but it's people that can be the worst - not that there aren't jerks at all levels, but it always seems worst when you're new here. They leave you alone, after a while. Or at least," she added, smiling behind her coffee, "they did for me."

She paused and after a moment, sipped her coffee slowly before grimacing and reaching for more sugar.

"Anyways," She continued, delicately tearing open another sugar packet, "how's life so far? Classes okay, people fine?"

"Well, pretty much, yeah," Matthew replied, drinking his coffee with a little more gusto now. "Most people have been pretty nice, actually."

"That's good to hear." Joan smiled, and Matthew couldn't help but smile back, just a little. "Roommate treating you well, too?"

"Oh, my roommate? Yeah, Gilbert's been really nice -"

"Wait a moment," Joan said, holding up a hand in shock, "that can't - you can't mean - not Gilbert _Beilschmidt?"_

"Um, yeah," Matthew said, a little taken aback by her reaction. "I mean, he really is pretty nice -"

"Nice? _Nice? _Gilbert Beilschmidt - oh, God, you're not him, are you?"

"Who?"

"That poor kid I heard about the other day- the one Bonnefoy and Carriedo were trying to abduct-"

"Well, that wasn't exactly how it happened, but-"

" Oh God, you are, aren't you? Aren't you?"

"Well, I guess, but it wasn't that bad, not really - they're nice people, once you get to know them."

Joan stared at him. Stared at him then, for a long, long time.

Very slowly, she put down her coffee.

"Oh you poor, poor thing," she said. "You've been Trio-ed, too, haven't you?"

"What?"

"Trio-ed," Joan repeated, interlocking her fingers and placing them beneath her chin, "the past form of the verb _trio, _meaning to be sucked into the world of the Bad Touch."

"The Bad Touch?"

"The Bad Touch Trio. Carriedo, Bonnefoy, and Beilschmidt," she elaborated, seeing the blank look on Matthew's face. "That's what they're known around campus as. The Trio part's because it's so hard to find one without the other two, the Bad Touch part because anyone who comes in contact with them is in for trouble. And you, you poor, poor thing - not only have they decided to take you on, you're stuck _rooming _with one of them-"

"Gilbert's not that bad."

"Ah, but that's the thing," Joan tsked, waving her fork in the air, "the thing that makes the Trio so dangerous. They _seem _charming. They _seem _nice. But sooner or later," she said, bringing the fork down into her coffee cake, "you find out that they're nothing but trouble. If I were you," she said, bringing the coffee cake to her mouth, "I'd request a new roommate. And soon. "

She paused and then put her fork down as she slowly chewed.

Matthew thought about that. He thought about last night - about all the laws he'd broken in the space of a few hours, all the things he'd seen and really hadn't wanted to. He thought this morning, the horrible headache he'd had from too much alcohol and noise and too little sleep. He thought about this, and let himself imagine, for a moment, that this was what his entire college experience was going to be like.

And then he thought of the alternative. Of high school.

"You should do it soon," Joan said, watching his face with sharp eyes. "_Very _soon."

"I should," Matthew said, slowly swirling his coffee, "but, well, I don't think I can. Um." Pause. "Will."

Joan reached for her coffee.

"Oh dear," she sighed, "you really do have it bad, don't you? And you seem like such a nice kid, too. You shouldn't be hanging around them, you know."

"I know," Matthew responded, smiling as he quietly stood up, "but who else do I have to hang out with? Thanks for the coffee," he said, reaching in his pocket.

"No, keep your money," Joan said, holding a hand up in protest. "My treat, really. And take the cake. I can't finish two pieces all by myself."

So Matthew did, thanking Joan as he did, before walking out into the sunny afternoon air.

* * *

><p>AN: Poor Lovino…I know he wasn't exactly the best behaved character in this chapter, but I feel so sorry for him. He really gets the short end of the stick here…I'm so bad at writing him in-character, so any notes would be appreciate!

There will be no translation notes for this chapter because Lovino's dirty mouth needs no translation.

Also, Michelle = Seychelles, Professor Hellen = Ancient Greece, and Joan = Joan of Arc


	6. Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte

Matthew was buying a cake.

Under normal circumstances, this would have been a perfectly normal task - step in, pay for the cake, step out - but if there was one thing Matthew had learned about New York so far, it was that 'normal' was a sad and neglected concept, one probably left to gather dust in a broom closet.

Especially when you added one Gilbert Beilschmidt into the mix.

Matthew Williams hadn't expected to find Gilbert in a pastry store, much in the same way people don't expect to find a tornado in Beverly Hills. But much in the same way quiet suburbs will always be subject to attack by bad CGI monsters, Matthew should have expected what would happen next.

"Whaddya mean, you don't carry it?"

Halfway between the cheesecake and the tortes, Matthew froze.

That voice. That tone. That _volume _(and in a public place, too).

Matthew didn't need to turn around to see the two figures at the bakery counter; he didn't need to see the white hair, the shocked red eyes. He knew, had known, from the first sound of that voice - and, to be honest, he probably wouldn't have needed even that, either. Gilbert had a presence, the type of aura possessed by mad scientists or especially dastardly B-movie villains.

Or tornados.

Slowly, surreptitiously, and completely unobtrusively, Matthew slipped behind a shelf piled high with confectionaries. Hidden behind a rack of cookies, cakes, and other manner of diabetic-shock inducing agents, he let out of a sigh of relief. Safe, once again. Invisible, once again.

Once again, however, invisibility - once inseparable from the name "Matthew William" - was proving difficult to procure.

Because hardly had Matthew ducked behind the doughnuts, that there was a call of, "hey, it's you again!", followed swiftly by a hand on Matthew's wrist pulling him up and towards the (undoubtedly now traumatized) lady at the counter.

"So, look here, now, miss," Gilbert said, practically shoving Matthew at the poor employee, "look at this kid here, will ya? I mean, I know I'm not exactly the most approachable character at times - the eyes, you know, people seem to think they're scary or something - although I don't know why, my opa always used to tell me that they made me look kind of cute - which I admit, they do, all the ladies _do _go for me - well, that is, until, they start hitting me with shopping bags and whatnot and - although it's _not _my fault, it's never my fault, I know it might seem like it and all, but I swear, it really-"

"Gilbert!" Matthew said, managing to finally wrench his hand free as he pulled back. "What are you doing?"

"Huh?" Gilbert asked, turning to Matthew. His eyes looked dazed and red - well, okay, they were always red, just redder than normal. Um. Not sick-red (though God knew how, especially as Matthew hadn't seen his roommate sleep once since he'd started at NYU), more like - a bright kind of red. The type of brightness you only saw in poets or lovers.

Or madmen.

"Oh!" Gilbert said, seemingly coming out of his reverie as he turned to the bakery owner once again. "_Right. _Anyways, like I was saying - look at that face!" he said and grabbed Matthew once again, one hand underneath his chin and maneuvering his face so that Matthew stared in bewilderment at the equally bewildered bakery lady. "Cute, huh?" Gilbert asked, letting go of Matthew, who immediately bent over, gasping for breath. "Can't lie to a face like that, can you? Now, c'mon, miss, I know you make it - you _have _to make it, every bakery in Berlin carries it - hell, even here on the other side of the ocean, _everyone's _had Kirschtorte-"

"W-What?" Matthew asked, still massaging his neck as he straightened up.

"See?" Gilbert victoriously crowed, all but clapping his hands as he beamed at Matthew. "Even Mattie's had Schwarzwalder Kirschtorte!"

"I have?"

"Oh, right, you guys call it Black Forest cake and all, but the German name's much better, you know? It gives it umph, it gives it strength, it's a nice, proper name -"

"Oh," Matthew said, somehow managing to pick out words from Gilbert's babble. "Black Forest cake."

"Yeah, exactly! Kirschtorte! Oh, God, that stuff's the best - and here you are," Gilbert cried, once again spinning towards the bakery lady, "telling me you don't make the stuff? Telling me you've never had _Kirschtorte? _Miss, I don't know why, but you're lying to me, and I don't appreciate it, because on my honor as a Catholic - actually, no, scratch that, I kinda failed as a Catholic - on my honor as – as a… as Gilbert Beilschmidt, cross my heart and hope to die plus the fact it's just not awesome - anyways, the point is, I promise you, _everyone _has had Kirschtorte. Everyone."

"Actually," Matthew said, "I haven't. I mean," he added, seeing Gilbert's eyes on him, "I've always wanted to try it, it's - it's just -"

"_You've never had Kirschtorte?"_

"Um - well, um… I don't think so?"

Gilbert stared at him for a long, long time.

And then, in the blink of an eye, he had grabbed Matthew by the wrist again, and was pulling him out of the shop with a violent tinkle of bells.

And then all was still inside the little bakery, all was calm. It was as though nothing had come through the store at all.

A tornado, however, always leaves a path.

The lady at the counter stared at the spot where Gilbert had been for exactly fifteen seconds. Then she stared at the door. And then back at the spot.

And then, without any further ado, she fainted.

* * *

><p>"Um… Uh, excuse me - well, Gilbert," Matthew stuttered, trying not to fall over as the subway came to another lurching stop, "but where exactly are we going?"<p>

"Huh?" Gilbert asked distractedly, turning around to look at Matthew. "Oh, that. Isn't it obvious? We're going to Francis's place!"

"What? But, um, what if he's not there?"

"Oh, that's _easy," _Gilbert said dismissively, letting go of the handrail and patting his pocket. "Key's right here."

Why exactly Gilbert would have Francis's key, Matthew didn't have the time to ponder, because in the next instant the train came to another jarring stop, one that nearly knocked Matthew off his feet.

"C'mon," Gilbert grinned, somehow managing to not move an inch despite having his hands in his pocket, "this is our stop."

Matthew was all too happy to follow.

_On second thought_, Matthew thought as he later leaned over the blue and white trashcan, _maybe sudden movement wasn't such a wise move_.

* * *

><p>Francis's flat, it turned out, was empty.<p>

"Lucille Greys," Gilbert explained, tucking the key into his pocket as he padded, barefoot, onto the thick, wine-colored carpet. "Normally, any sane teacher would have kicked Francis out by now - at least once - but none of the culinary teachers have. Hard to argue with that, though. Francis makes a mean soufflé."

"Did he buy those?" Matthew questioned, staring around at the various paintings that adorned the walls.

"Those? Nah, Francis's parents might be French, but they're actually not _that _filthy rich - I mean, after sending two kids to off college, who would be? He made those."

"H-He _made _those?_"_

"Yeah," Gil nodded, pausing in front of a painting of the Eiffel Tower at sunset. "They're okay, I guess, but the Italian kid down my street could knock Francis off his feet when it comes to painting. C'mon," he said and opened a door, "this is the kitchen."

"Um, well-"

"Yeah?" Gilbert absentmindedly asked, rummaging through one of the drawers.

"What exactly are we doing here?"

"Making Kirschtorte, of course!" Gilbert said, standing up with several bags of flour, a large bowl, and a bottle of sherry. "You've been deprived all these years! About time you get some Kirschtorte into you! And the_ awesome _me willbe the one to bake it!"

Gilbert seemed rather insistent on that last point. And, from all prior experience, Matthew knew that it would probably be better to let an insistent and stubborn Gilbert have his way.

So he went back into the living room and admired the paintings on the walls, the soft leather of the U-shaped sofa, and the plush softness of the rug underneath his feet.

Admiring everything, that is, until he heard a crash from the kitchen.

"Gilbert!"

"M'okay Just an egg, but that's alright! 'Sides, the shell gives it some crunch, you know?"

_What -_

Oh_ dear._

Matthew ran into the kitchen, where he promptly stepped on an egg, skid on the whites, knocked up a spray of flour, and fell flat onto his back.

"Mattie! You're breathing, right - oh, shit, he's _not! _Mein Gott Mein Gott, I don't know how to do CPR, what am I going to do what am I going to do whatamI-"  
>"You can start by not waving that in my face," Matthew muttered to himself, a little dazed as he stared at the mixing spoon flying about in his direct line of sight.<p>

"Mein Gott, you're alive!" Gilbert cried, the spoon flying into the air as he lifted Matthew into a (rib-crushingly tight) hug. "Roomie, that's _awesome!"_

And before Matthew could blink, Gilbert was up and gone again, dancing through the kitchen and tossing random things about.

"Um," Matthew said intelligently, slowly dusting himself off as he peered into the mixing bowl, "why exactly is the chocolate cake yellow?"

"Huh?" Gilbert asked, skidding over with two eggs. "Oh, that. Well, it's an ancient family secret. Can't tell you on the pain of death," he said, grinning as he dropped the eggs in, shells and all.

"Um." Matthew stared at the pieces of eggshell in the batter. "I – I'm sorry, but… I'm not sure you're supposed to do that…?"

"Do what, roomie?" Gilbert glanced over, sliding through the flour.

"Well, um, most people don't put eggshells in their cake."

"Really?" Gilbert tilted his head, then shrugged and causally tipped a box of baking soda into the mix. "Well, then, they're all-"

"Or that much baking powder!" Matthew almost shrieked, hastily tipping the box back up. "It'll make the cake rise too much!"

"Awesome!" Gilbert exclaimed, suddenly (and ominously) much more interested in the batter than before. "Hey, I wonder what would happen if I added a weak acid to this mix - not a strong one, like vinegar, but something that wouldn't decompose into a gas - d'y'think it'd turn blue if I added copper sulfate? And what if we added it just as we put the whole thing into the oven and it exploded from the carbon dioxide? That would be _awesome! _We should do it!"

"We should," Matthew said, ducking to avoid being hit by Gilbert's newly acquired mixing spoon, "but the problem is, we wouldn't have any cake to eat then."

"Oh. Right."

He looked extremely sad then, with flour all over his nose and bits of egg white clinging to his clothes. Matthew was hit with a sudden urge to hug him.

All for about two seconds.

Because in the next, Gilbert was up again, tossing all the boxes of flour and sugar into the cupboards, humming something as he pitched the innocent utensils he had recruited into the sink, after which he turned the water on full blast.

Then, room suitably cleaned up, he sat down with the mixing bowl and mixing spoon still in hand, and began to eat the batter.

"Gilbert," Matthew asked, staring at the bits of eggshell that decorated the outside of the bowl, "why are you eating that?"

"Huh?" Gilbert asked, looking up from licking the spoon. "Well, the taste is kind of off, but it's kinda a waste to just dump it all away. It's just not awesome! Besides," he added, digging his spoon into the batter - mess - _thing _in the bowl, "I'm kind of hungry, anyway."

"Have you had lunch yet?"

"Lunch?" Gilbert repeated, giving his roommate a baffled look. "What would I need lunch for?"

Something about Gilbert's response told Matthew a plethora more than what he had wanted to know.

"Gilbert," Matthew slowly said, changing tack slightly, "you've had breakfast, right?"

Gilbert gave him a look, one that clearly said whatever world he was living in did not accommodate such unnecessary concepts as "lunch" and "breakfast."

Matthew closed his eyes, and told himself to count one, two, three.

When he opened them, though, he was smiling.

"C'mon," The Canadian gently pried the mixing spoon and bowl from Gilbert's fingers, "let's throw this mess away and make something edible. Are you fine with pancakes?"

"You mean those thin crepe-things Francis makes, or the IHOP stuff?"

"Um, well, I wouldn't consider what they serve at IHOP pancakes, per se-"

"Ah, but those things are so awesome!"

Once again, Matthew stared at him for a long, long time.

Then he turned and began rummaging through the shelves.

"Hey, roomie," Gilbert drawled, dusting off his jeans as he stood up, "wha'cha doing, exactly?"

"Making pancakes," Matthew replied, gently placing the cinnamon on the counter. "You've been deprived all these years. We ought to get some _real_ pancakes into you."

"Oh. 'Kay with me! Want any help–"

"And I," Matthew interrupted, taking out a spatula and brandishing it at Gilbert, "will be the one to cook them."

* * *

><p>Notes:<p>

Traditionally, Black Forest cake contains alcohol - hence the sherry in this story.

Feel free to correct my chem, but this is what I think would happen in Gil's scenerio:

CuSO4 + 2NaHCO3 - CuCO3 + Na2SO4 + H2O + CO2

The substance would be blue because of the copper (although I think the whole thing would be a solid instead of a liquid, so the cake wouldn't be _all _blue probably), and the cake would naturally explode because - as Gil himself said - the carbon dioxide would make it so.

"Opa" = Grandpa in German

Once again, many thanks to my beta, my readers, and Folger's instant coffee :)


	7. Peace Offering

Ah. Now _this _was much better.

"Food's ready," Matthew called, carefully flipping the last pancake onto one of Francis's china plates.

"Awesome!" Gilbert said, grinning as he suddenly appeared at Matthew's elbow (honestly, though, how _did_ he do that?) "Ooh, these _do _look pretty good!" he said, peering at the stack of golden pancakes. "Better than IHOP, huh? Let's see!"

And with that, Gilbert and both plates of pancakes were gone, migrated (teleported, Matthew corrected himself) in a heartbeat to Francis's dining room. And, much less quickly, so was Matthew. The sun slanted in through the windows on the neatly set table, and the white paint of the chairs shone in the sunlight.

They sat down, Gilbert for once quieted by the prospect of food. And, after quite a bit of prodigious rummaging through Francis's cabinets, Matthew brought out condiments: chopped strawberries, ganache and chocolate chips from Valrhona, clover honey and golden molasses to compensate for the lack of maple syrup. Gilbert didn't seem to mind the unorthodox flavors, if the rate at which he ate was any indication.

For a few moments, they ate in silence.

"You know," Gilbert said, chewing as he cut into another pancake, "these are probably better than Francis's crepes."

Matthew looked down at his pancakes and muttered something incoherent.

"No, seriously," Gilbert said, waving his fork in the air as he talked, "they're seriously some pretty damn amazing pancakes. You could probably make a nice mint selling these things for money - you should, you know? I mean, that would be pretty awesome - Francis could do all the fancy French stuff, and Antonio's great with stuff like paella and gazpacho, so he could do that - and then there's me, of course, and I could do all the awesome German cooking while you make those awesome pancakes of yours -"

"So," Matthew asked, smiling up at Gilbert, "they're better than IHOP's, eh?"

_"Galaxies _better, roomie."

In the sun-saturated room, they smiled at each other.

"So," Gilbert continued, dangling a piece of pancake on his fork as he leaned back in Francis's chair, "what were you doing in a bakery anyway, roomie? Seeing as you can cook like this."

"Well," Matthew said, smiling as he picked up his fork again, "I was buying a cake -"

"Ooh, for a girl, right?"

"N-no! It wasn't -"

"Oh - a guy, then? 'S okay, 's okay - I'm pretty sure Francis and Tonio swing both ways, too -"

"No! I mean, yes, it was for a guy, but not because of _that -_"

"Aw, c'mon Mattie, I won't tell anyone -"

"No - it's not like that at all! I was buying it because I got him in trouble and then he kind of yelled at me and then got coffee dumped on him!"

There was a silence, then.

The piece of pancake slowly fell off Gilbert's fork and onto the floor.

"Wait," Gilbert said, putting his fork down, "so you're telling me that you dumped coffee on someone?"

"Um, well, someone else did that. But did I kind of did get him in trouble."

"How?" Gilbert asked, grinning as he picked up the fork again. "Didja pick a fight with him? Insult his mother? Girlfriend? Grandma? - or you know, there's this really neat thing Tonio and I did once, we put cayenne pepper in Francis's wine, and oh, God, you should have seen his face when he tried to get drunk that night -"

"Um, no. I didn't. I was kind of falling asleep. So I got in his way. Um. When he was trying to see."

Once again, the silence. Once again, the fork, pancake dangling precariously at the end.

Gilbert stared at Matthew for a moment, and then burst out laughing.

"What?" Matthew asked, not quite sure what was so funny while inexplicably also beginning to blush.

"Oh God, _roomie,_" Gilbert said, shoulders shaking and white hair flopping as he laughed, _"_when people are assholes to you, you punch them in the nose - you don't go and buy them _cake."_

"B-but - well, I thought if I bought him cake, then maybe he wouldn't hate me anymore -"

"Mattie, let me tell you this again - if someone's going to hate you, you don't buy them fucking _cake_, you punch them in the fucking _face _-"

"But I _can't _punch him in face -"

"Why not? I can do it for you, if you don't want to -"

"But I don't want _anyone_ to be punched in the face! That's why I'm buying the cake!"

Another silence: long, awkward.

"It's, um, like a peace offering? I guess. So no one gets punched in the face."

Gilbert stared.

And then he began to laugh again.

"Oh, God, _Mattie - oh God oh God _oh G_od -"_

"Anyway," Matthew asked, turning hastily to his pancakes and another topic, "what were you doing at a bakery?"

"Buying a cake - at least, fucking _trying _to."

"For a girl?"

"Nope!" Gilbert answered, cheerfully cutting into another pancake. "For my brother. Birthday cake, Kirschtorte cake - but they didn't have it, was the thing, see, which blows because I've tried nearly all of the places nearby, and either they don't carry it or their Kirschtorte tastes like cardboard - which is fucking insane, because, c'mon, we live in New York fucking City, we've got about fifty McDonalds each block, but we can't get one decent bakery that sells Kirschtorte? And, hell, it's not exactly as if I have all the time in the world to search this damn city - Luddy's birthday's October 18th and - oh, _shit__,_ that doesn't give me any time at all -"

"Um, Gilbert?"

"- yeah?"

"Did you say _October _18th?"

"Yeah, and damn it, I don't have a present, either, what the fuck am I going to do -"

"Um, actually, I think it'll be alright -"

"Alright? Roomie, I don't think you understand -"

"Well, I know you want to get a nice present and a nice cake, which is really nice, but the thing is, it's September. Eleventh. Isn't your brother's birthday still, um, a bit far away?"

Pause. Tilt of head, slight lifting of the fork. Pancakes pieces, falling on polished wood.

"Well, _maybe," _Gilbert conceded, turning to his pancakes again. "But," he added quickly, pointing his fork in the air once again, "I was going to buy some stuff for chem, and I saw it on the way, so I thought I'd stop in - Francis used to work there, so I figured it had be at least somewhat palatable, even if it looked frilly as hell - and you know, it's nice to be prepared in advance and all that, and since I was there and being productive, why not get everything done at once? So, anyway, I walk into this girly-as-hell store to go looking for some damn cake - and they tell me they don't have any Kirschtorte, don't make any Kirschtorte, haven't even fucking _heard _of Kirschtorte - I mean, what the hell? How the hell am I supposed to give my brother a proper present if none of the damn stores in this city sell any proper German cake? But," he added, brightening suddenly, "that just means I get to make the cake, right? Which will make it just twice as awesome!"

Matthew nodded, muttered something noncommittal, and tried not to look Gilbert in the eyes.

"But, anyways, Mattie," Gilbert said, reaching over and scooping up several chocolate chips, "fact of the matter is, none of us have to go buy anything. I can make Kirschtorte for Luddy, and you can make pancake cake for whatever asshole you're trying to calm down!"

Matthew blinked.

"Pancake… cake?"

"Yeah," Gilbert said, nodding as he popped the chocolate into his mouth. "I mean, like I said before, your pancakes are pretty much fan-fucking-tastic, so I'm pretty sure they'd be at least ten times as awesome if you stuck them all together with chocolate and whipped cream and icing and all sorts of other sugary shit - I mean, who the hell wouldn't want to eat something like that? Hell, you could probably put someone into a sugar coma with that - it'd be _awesome _karma, and no one would actually get their face punched in."

"Um, well, it'd be nice if no one was put into a sugar coma, either. That might make him hate me more."

"Hey, I'd risk a sugar coma if it meant pancake cake - you are going to make it, right? Hey, we've even got time right now - and I could help, too, since you want this cake to be awesome and all -"

"Um, actually, that's okay – I think I can manage on my own, really -"

"Ah, c'mon, Mattie, I want to help - I could be your assistant, or your cleanup crew, or your taste tester -"

"Probably the last one," Matthew muttered under his breath.

"Really?" Gilbert asked, overhearing the aside and thus further confirming Matthew's hypothesis that he was secretly a ninja. "Awesome! Francis always lets me be taste tester, so I'm pretty sure my skills as one are pretty damn good -"

No, Matthew thought sadly as he listened to Gilbert talk, he really couldn't, could he? It would be like kicking a puppy, or telling a four-year-old that Santa didn't actually exist - you couldn't do it, just couldn't. And so if Gilbert wanted to make pancake cake - whatever in the world that was - then they would make pancake cake. Simple as that, and even if he had no idea what in the world it was.

Matthew sighed. He felt sorry for the poor cake, whatever it was.

* * *

><p>"What the fuck is this?"<p>

"Um, well, uh, it's a cake. A pancake cake."

Lovino Vargas, erstwhile known as AIG, stared at the cake.

"A pancake….cake."

"Um. Yes."

"A cake made out of pancakes."

"Kind of, I guess."

Lovino stared at the cake some more.

"It's poisoned, isn't it?"

"No! No, of course it isn't -"

"Then why the fuck are you giving me it?"

Pause.

In the silence, somewhere, a door closed.

Lovino smiled, triumph in his eyes as he looked at Matthew.

In a very small, very quiet voice, Matthew said, "to apologize. About, well, um, two days ago."

Again, the stare - this time not at the cake, but at Matthew. Then back to the cake. Then back to Matthew.

"Well," Lovino said slowly, the wariness in his eyes fading just a little bit, "I guess you didn't need to poison it anyway - I'll probably get fucking diabetes after the first bite of it. Though it's probably poisoned anyway, too."

"I can eat some of it, if you want - to show you it's not poisoned -"

"And have you die of diabetic shock on me? Fuck no, I'm not paying those bills," Lovino replied, picking up the cake with both hands and walking into Professor Hellen's classroom.

And - slowly, smiling slightly - Matthew followed him inside.

* * *

><p>"Mattie!" Michelle called, standing up as she waved to him. "Hey, what's up?"<p>

"Not much," he said, smiling at her as he put his books down. "How are you?"

"I'm fine!" she said, smiling back. "I had the best lunch with my brother the other day - we went to a crepes shop, and their food was pretty good, even if he makes better ones and -"

"Hi."

"Oh," Michelle said, glancing briefly at the Italian boy standing behind Matthew. "Hi."

She turned back to Matthew.

"Anyways, Mattie - the next time we go, you should definitely come with us! It'd be so much -"

"Excuse me."

Slowly, slowly, and with the air of someone facing their executioner, Michelle turned to Lovino Vargas.

"Yes?" she asked in a voice that would have frozen magma. "Do you want something?"

"I do," Lovino said, and placed the pancake cake on top of her books.

"It's a cake made out of pancakes," he said. "To apologize."

Michelle narrowed her eyes.

"No thank you," she said coldly. "I can do without the calories. It's probably poisoned, anyway."

Lovino opened his mouth -

And then the door opened, and the room went silent as Professor Hellen walked in.

"Good morning!" she said, putting her bag down. "I see we are ready to learn today - ah," she said, noticing Lovino and Michelle glaring at each other, "maybe not quite yet…"

Their eyes not leaving each other, Lovino and Michelle slowly sat down.

"Well!" Professor Hellen said, smiling at the class, "let us go back, then, to the developmental psychologists and Piaget…"

"In the end, however," Professor Hellen said, "Baby Albert - in addition to corroborating on Pavlov's discoveries on classical conditioning - also helped call into question the issue of ethics in experiments."

She paused, then, for a drink of water.

"And on that note," she said, putting her Ice Mountain back on the podium, "I would like to introduce to you the first of many group projects we will do in this class. In a laboratory environment - or, for that matter, in any work environment - you will often be working with a variety of personalities, some of which will naturally differ quite greatly from yours. It is my hope, then, by putting you in groups, you will gain some of the interpersonal skills you will need to succeed in the outside world."

Another pause, as Professor Hellen smiled at the class.

"Our first project, I hope, will naturally be of interest to you, because you will be designing an original experiment, to be tested, analyzed, and turned in two months' time. It will, naturally, be within ethical bounds."

"Now then. You will be sorted into pre-selected small groups of three each. Please sit still while I call out the names: Andrews, Zeng, Ghazni."

Silence, even then, as the three girls turned to look at each other, before quickly turning their attention again to Professor Hellen. Pavlovian response.

"Williams, Bonnefoy -"

"Mattie, we're together!" Michelle whispered, grinning at him, as Matthew's mind tried to work around the details - Bonnefoy? Bonnefoy? As in, _Francis _Bonnefoy? She was Francis's sister?

"- and Vargas."

Dead, horrified silence.

Three sets of eyes stared at each other. Blankly. Unbelievingly.

Professor Hellen smiled brightly, and continued reading names.

* * *

><p>AN: Fun fact – pancake cake actually exists. Google it, and you get tons of recipes – and they all look _de-_li-_cious._

Thank you, as always, to all my readers and betas – you guys are wonderful and I love you all. 3

Also, sorry for not updating…AP tests and school have been slowly conspiring to kill me, so that's pretty fun there. This might is kind of the test until AP tests end, so I'm sorry about that, too – but I will try to update ASAP after my two weeks of torture are over!


	8. And All That Other Tourist Stuff: Pt 1

This is actually a half-chapter, and I am honestly not completely 100% satisfied with it (especially since half of it was written at one am on a plane, ha). I am posting it, however, because a)I'm typing this from China, and it might be a while before I get to use internet again, what with having to sightsee and visit approximately all 987654321 of my parents' relatives and friends, b)the translation notes would have gotten ridiculous if I made the story twice as long, and they're already ridiculous enough, and c)I have not posted in, like, _five-ever _*facepalms repeatedly and grovels for forgiveness*

That said, please enjoy the chapter :)

Edit: now with fewer language fails, courtesy of you, wonderful reader! *throws confetti and chocolate*

* * *

><p>Ah. Friday.<p>

Finally.

A week of classes; a week of Starbucks and waking up at seven in the morning; a week of having holes bored into his skull by angry Italian guys and making pancake cake to get them to stop (and thank God that had worked, because Matthew didn't know how he would have survived a semester of angry Lovino Vargas); a week, in short, of mayhem and math and pure, utter madness.

And here it was, then. Friday - finally Friday and finally the weekend. A time to relax, to catch up on rest and homework -

- though, to be honest, Matthew should have really known better by now.

Because trouble came in threes, and when Matthew opened the door to his dorm, all three of the Bad Touch Trio were waiting for him.

Matthew blinked.

Then, trying not to sigh and trying not to smile, surrendered himself to his fate.

Really, he should have known better by now.

* * *

><p>"New York City," Gilbert said, grinning as he spread the map out before them. "Eight million people, five districts, four hundred years of history, and ten thousand and eight awesomeness points - and we're going to see all of it."<p>

"Weren't we just planning on going around Manhattan?"

"Everything's that important," Gilbert clarified, waving a hand at Antonio. "Anyways, since we figured you're probably still new to the city, we're going to hit all the big places - Staten Ferry and Times Square, Rockefeller Center and Empire State - all that jazz. Waking up real early, roomie, and then going to go see everything!"

"Dans Manhattan," Francis clarified. "And, en réalité, mon cher, not really. Il ya beaucoup plus things faire dans New York City - non, Antonio?"

"I understood eight words of what you just said," Antonio replied cheerfully, "and one of them was my name."

"Brush up on your French, then, mon cher."

"Cuando mejores tu español, mi amigo."

"Oder ihr könntet aufhören zu streiten und Deutsch lernen! Es ist eine großartige Sprache und ich verstehe nicht wie jemand keine Lust hat sie zu lernen, es sei denn sie sind faul und wahrscheinlich russisch und können mit ihrer Großartigkeit einfach nicht umgehen -"

Very delicately, Francis placed a hand over Gilbert's mouth.

"Please," Francis said, wiping his hand on Gilbert's bed sheets, "a little more English. S'il vous plaît."

Gilbert kicked him.

"Ow - pour l'amour de Dieu -"

"N-oooo-t English!" Gilbert called, grinning as he danced away from Francis. "Nicht Englisch, nicht Englisch!"

"Mais tu triches maintenant, aussi!" Francis cried, standing up and limping exaggeratedly towards Gilbert. "Antonio, ce n'est pas juste! Aidez-moi, aidez-moi!"

"Oh, knock it off, you too," Antonio said, waving a hand as he picked up a book from the floor. "You're both legal adults, you shouldn't have to go running to Mommy everything something goes add. Besides," he added, flopping back on the bed and opening the book, "todos sabemos que español es el mejor idioma."

In the ensuing fray, Matthew decided to quietly sneak away to brush his teeth - if he was getting kidnapped, after all, he might as well be well-rested when it happened.

Although, to be honest, he should have really known better by now.

* * *

><p>Matthew was in a train.<p>

There were several things wrong with this picture.

First, it was six o'clock in the morning - and if that was an unholy time to get up during the school week, then there certainly weren't words strong enough in the English language to describe what it was like waking up before that on a Saturday morning. Especially if you had fallen asleep at two the previous night, courtesy of an argument you understood roughly a third of.

Especially, too, if you had been rushed out of your room so quickly there hadn't been time for coffee.

Second, there was the matter of the tour guides - because, despite getting roughly the same amount of sleep as Matthew had that night, the Bad Touch Trio seemed impervious to such things as 'tiredness' and 'sleep-deprivation.' Well. At least in the presence of a carload of the type of women who were awake at six in the morning.

In the span of twenty minutes and with Francis's help, Matthew learned quite a lot about these women.

More really, than he had ever really wanted to know.

It was the third point, however, that really was the thing.

Many factors contributed to this, with the main one being that this point went by the name of Gilbert Beilschmidt.

Gilbert Beilschmidt - who had slept even less than Antonio and Francis and was somehow more awake than the two of them combined – and who was, at the moment, challenging the homeless guitarist on the train to a musical battle.

"C'mon, whaddya think is the worst I'm going to do - beat you? Oh, huh, that's it, isn't it - of course you know that my natural awesomeness and musical talent would mean I'd win, so of course you wouldn't even want to try against me -"

"- in a tree by a brook, there's a songbird who sings, sometimes all our thoughts are mis_gi_ven - thank you, thank you very much," the man murmured, nodding at the girl that dropped a five in his guitar case before nervously taking a seat far away from the still-ranting Gilbert (Francis letting out a low moan of disappointment that led her to scoot a few more seats down).

"- what's the harm, anyway? 'S'not like I'm some tone-deaf teenage pop-singer who wouldn't know E flat from E sharp - I used to play, you know, was pretty damn _bitching _at it, too -"

"Battery Park," the automated voice chimed, cutting into Gilbert's monologue as the train jolted to a stop.

"Gilbert, that's our stop," Antonio said, gently tugging the other boy towards the exit as he covertly slipped the guitarist a twenty. "Let's go."

"But _Toni,_" Gilbert whined, refusing to move as he stared at the guitarist (who seemed admirably unfazed by the whole situation), _"_I'm seriously, I could legit do really well at this, make a killing-"

"We're _going,_"Antonio said, both his tone and his tugging becoming noticeably firmer.

And so they left, Francis blowing kisses with one of his most dazzling smiles as the doors closed behind them.

* * *

><p>Once they are outside the station, however, all of Gilbert's former dreams of subway-riding rockstar-hood disappear, vanish and dissipate as he wrenches free from Antonio's grip, takes Matthew's hand and all but sprints into the sunlight, the words already ready and out before Matthew can even process anything.<p>

"-everyone comes here for the Statue, of course – Statue of fucking Liberty, symbol of opportunity and progress and democracy and blah blah blah, all that other American dream shit, which is awesome, I guess – but Battery Park is pretty fucking cool, too – it's got all these pigeons, and they're practically tame, eat straight out of your hand, it's pretty damn adorable – nope, sorry Toni, not slowing down to wait for your ass, so better fucking hurry up!"

And, grin somehow managing to widen, Gilbert carried on, Matthew jogging to keep up with both Gilbert's pace and his barrage of facts.

"-that's Battery Gardens – don't eat there, seriously, their food is overpriced as hell, shit is so not worth living off ramen for a week – and that's a statue for this guy called Admiral Dewey – guy did some pretty cool shit during the Spanish-American War, and got 'bout the most generic statue put up for him, I mean, seriously, what the fuck actually –"

Matthew nodded, tried to murmur quiet interest, and found he couldn't, really, when everything around him was a blur.

Until, suddenly, it wasn't, Gilbert coming to a stop that was almost as jarring as his impromptu start.

"-and that," Gilbert said, pointing as Matthew tried to catch his breath, "is the Statue."

Rising above the waters, green-blue from age, a colossus of weathered copper, she stood: the Statue of Liberty. Symbol of opportunity, progress, democracy – an emblem of the very American dream itself.

Slowly standing up, Matthew stood and gazed upwards. Blinked, stared up and up at the New Colossus, the Mother of Exiles, the Statue of Liberty Enlightening the World -

And saw a statue.

Impressive, yes, and historical, no doubt about it – but, for all its credentials, still a statue.

Doubtless Alfred would have found it fascinating, would have "ooh-ed" and "aah-ed" and fawned his fanboy heart out over the oxidized metal in the harbor, but to Matthew – who had never been one for American history – the Statue was just that: a statue.

Perhaps there had been a time when it would have been different, when Matthew would have "ooh-ed" and "aah-ed" in conjunction with Albert, but whenever that time had been, it had long passed. Over the years, the trips – summer upon summer of them, an unrelenting barrage of camera flashes and strained smiles – had piled together, melded into a whirlwind of names and places and plastic souvenirs that broke within a week of buying them – until that was all it was, a flash of names-places-flashbulb-pictures, centuries of history compressed into forty-five minute segments only nine ninety-nine each.

It was a statue. And – much as it made him feel awful to say it, awful and selfish and horribly ungrateful – he had seen other ones.

Matthew realized then, with a sudden and horrifying start, that Gilbert was still speaking.

"-I mean, who the fuck doesn't know what the Statue looks like? – it's on every fucking textbook and all those Photoshopped cheap postcards tourists buy to give to their friends because, you know, I thought of you, all twenty-five fucking cents of consideration –"

"Hey, now," Antonio protested, but there was still a smile on his face as he came up to them, Francis strolling behind, "esto solo fue _one _time. And I apologized, too, didn't I?"

"Apologized? For going to Barcelona and bringing me nothing back but a bunch of ten-cent postcards and photos of _all that food, Gilbert, Mam__á__ made it –_ yeah, well, Toni, you bastard, you know what I say to your co-fucking-mida –"

"Il n'est pas Antonio's fault," Francis said, causally draping an arm around Antonio's shoulder, "that _you _burn faster in the sun than a crepe does in your hands."

"Speaking of which," Antonio said, rummaging in his pockets as Gilbert stuck his tongue out at Francis, "creo que – que – aha! There it is," he said, triumphantly holding up something small and yellow.

"I think," Antonio said, gently handing the object to Gilbert, "that you forgot something."

Gilbert made a face. "Aw, c'mon, Toni –"  
>"No, <em>come on<em> you, Gilbert," Antonio said, sighing, "we've been over this before. You _know _what happens –"

"You don't use it. I don't see you nagging _Francis _about bringing sunscreen every time he walks out the door –"

"Pour la simple raison," Francis cut in, "that _I _happen to have more melanin than the average vampire. And Antonio is right – we're going to be out all day, mon cher, y si tu n'aimerais pas to return pinker than a salmon filet –"

"But sunscreen is just so – not awesome."

"Neither are second degree burns," Antonio said, and though his tone was gentle, there was a current a steel underneath his words.

And so, grumbling, Gilbert took the sunscreen.

"Every two hours, too."

"I know, Mom."

* * *

><p>Notes:<p>

Battery Park does contain Battery Gardens (which is, indeed, extremely expensive) and a memorial to Admiral George Dewey. The pigeons may be slightly more feral than described, however, so I hold no responsibility for any injuries incurred while trying to feed them.

Matthew's attitude towards tourism is kind of based on my own; I've always felt tourism is something that should be taken slowly, instead of being an itinerary of places to see because they're what you're "supposed to see" :P

Apologies to all New Yorkers who don't live in Manhattan, but Gil is a Manhattan boy and naturally is biased.

Translations:

en réalité = in reality

il ya beaucoup plus things faire dans = there are many other things to do in

cuando mejores tu español = when you improve your Spanish

Oder Sie könnten verhindern, dass Ihre Geschwätz und Deutsch lernen! Es ist eine ehrfürchtige Sprache, und ich weiß nicht, warum jemand keine Lust, es zu lernen, wenn sie nicht nur lahm und wahrscheinlich russischer waren und einfach nicht mit seiner awesomeness = Or you guys can stop your arguement and learn German. It is an awesome language, and I don't know why anyone would not want to learn it, unless they are just lame and probably Russian and just can't handle its awesomeness (many, many heartfelt thanks to Mew I is Dinosaur for helping me wrangle out an acceptable German translation! *gives internet chocolate*)

pour l'amour de Dieu = for the love of God

Mais tu triches maintenant, aussi = but you're cheating now, too

ce n'est pas juste! Aidez-moi, aidez-moi = it isn't fair! Help me, help me!

todos sabemos que español es el mejor idioma = everyone knows that Spanish is the best language

esto solo fue = that was only

Creo que = I think that

Pour la simple raison = for the simple reason

si tu n'aimerais pas = if you wouldn't like to


	9. And All That Other Tourist Stuff: Pt 2

A/N: I give up on improving this chapter. It is long and delayed and terrible and unedited and you may all begin to judge me for my terribleness starting right now, but I've had it forever and am just going to inflict it on you all now

Sorry OTL

* * *

><p>The wind was chill against Matthew's skin, salt spray and soft breeze a cool contrast to the hot sun overhead. It was nice, he reflected, being up here, away from the noise of the passengers (half of which probably had something to do with the Bad Touch Trio) - nice, really, cool and calm and quiet as the interplay of wind and water beneath his feet. A nice contrast. Peacefully comfortable, really, as Matthew leaned against the railing of the ferry -<p>

- until, that is, he was promptly shoved away from the edge of the ship, stumbling as his glasses were knocked askew and his body nearly knocked into New York Harbor.

"Alright now guys, say cheese!"

Flash of coordinated colors and caps against the railing, poses being struck; gleams of white and metal, lips pulled back into smiles that more resembled grimaces; click, preliminary blinking of red lights, setting - then click-click-click, white light that flashed and blinded three times in succession.

When the dots in his vision had cleared, Matthew - blinking as he stood back up - could see the figures at the railing in motion once again, reposing as the baseball-cap wearing, I- -NYC t-shirt clad figure that appeared to be their mother readjusted the settings on her Kodak.

Matthew watched them for a few moments more - the camera-clutching mother; the well-shaven and slightly bemused husband standing behind, a beer in his hands and an American flag bandana on his head; their children, fidgeting in matching red and green outfits that made them look like overgrown Christmas ornaments - and then closed his eyes and sighed.

Well, so much for peace and quiet.

"Okay, now time for the funny pose!"

Suppressing another sigh, Matthew reluctantly began walking back to the inside of the ferry, where - no doubt - the Bad Touch Trio were raising ten different types of hell.

Sad thing, really, when they could be considered saner company.

* * *

><p>Among all the flora and fauna of New York City, one species dominates the natural landscape: tourista vulgaris, or common tourist (genus bacillus).<p>

Abiding in a variety of natural habitats and coming in many variants, the common tourist can, nonetheless, be identified by a number of shared traits: large, often excessively bulky backpacks, generally accompanied by a worn and wrinkled map clutched as though it was a newborn child; a very marked tendency to flock together, usually in specific locations and in passenger pigeon-like numbers (much to the annoyance of native species); a need to carry cameras with them at all times, so much so that several scientists have hypothesized a symbiotic bond between the two; a magpie-like obsession with acquiring extremely overpriced, gaudy objects that invariably all turn out to be made of plastic; and a perpetual confused, lost look that often translates into much abuse of security guards. In the hierarchy of New York fauna, they are considered somewhat above cockroaches and significantly below pigeons.

Yet though well-documented and the subject of much study, the behavior of the common tourist continues to baffle modern scientists, who have yet to come up with a suitable hypothesis of many of tourista vulgarism's common behaviors.

Like, for example, the one where they completely and uttered failed at following basic instructions.

Matthew wasn't sure how many of fellow passengers were native English speakers, but as the signs declaring NO FLASH PHOTOGRAPH and DO NOT LEAN ON RAILING were printed in thirteen languages and accompanied with pictures, he suspected that many of the flash-photograph-taking, railing-leaning, flagrant-rule-breaking visitors could not be excused by ignorance.

"So that's the statue!" Gilbert said, cheerfully sitting back on the railing. "So whaddyathink?"

Matthew thought about that for a moment, looked up again at the rest of the statue from his place on the pedestal as Gilbert kicked out a rhythm on worn marble.

"It's…impressive," he finally said.

And it was.

Matthew didn't really know what else to add to the description.

Gilbert, however, didn't seem to mind the lackluster response to both the destination and his impromptu twenty-minute guide about it, because - jumping off the railing - he grinned a "great!" and then promptly shot off after something across the room, probably a passing butterfly or something of the sort.

Matthew wasn't sure if he should consider it a good sign or not that he was starting to label this type of behavior as "normal" from his roommate.

"Is he finished?" Francis asked, looking up from examining his nails (a task that he had been thoroughly engaged in for all twenty minutes of Gilbert's tour). "Oh, quel soulagement - mon Dieu, I thought it would be worse than when we went to that German museum -"

"O dios mio, don't remind me," Antonio said, shuddering. "What was it, two? three hours? - he just kept talking and talking, I honestly thought he was going to asphyxiate from not pausing to breathe -"

"Notre Gilbert? No, mon ami - things would be far, far too easy if that happened, and we can't have that, can we?"

"Well," Antonio said, shrugging as he smiled helplessly, "we could get lucky?"

Francis made a noise that could have been scoffing if it were not for the affection in it.

"I do wonder though, sometimes," Francis said, after a short pause. "About Gilbert."

"Oh?" Antonio asked.

"Yes," Francis said, (illegally) leaning his elbow on the railing and gazing out into the harbor. "I do."

There was another pause.

"Ooooh-kay," Antonio said. "And? Because I worry about Gilbert all the time, I'm fairly certain it's a requirement for anyone with a speck of sanity to do -"

Straightening, Francis turned around and gave Antonio a Look.

"Oh, _dios mio,_ Francis," Antonio sighed, "not _that _again -"

"The _suspense _of the moment, mon ami, the sheer beauty of the suspense, how many times must I _remind _you -"

"- o _dios mio, _why are we even _talking _about this again - Francis, _mi amigo, _lo siento, but we're not in one of your French movies, ¿bien? There is nothing symbolic about the color of my t-shirt -"

"- sauf en tant que métaphore de terrible taste -"

"I will have who know I bought this shirt two weeks, Francis -"

"At _what? _A garage sale? Mon _Dieu, _that shirt couldn't be more fluorescent if it glowed in the dark -"

"And now we're back to _that _one, again -"

"- and your hair, mon ami, simply _awful -_ if you would only give me _a week -_"

"- and remind me again why I would let you go after my hair again, hm? I don't think it ever did anything to you -"

Matthew waited for a bit, in a politely loitering sort of way, and - when ten minutes had passed and more than the ordinary amount of people had begun staring - then, only shaking his head slightly, delicately edged away. Far, far away.

He managed - after much accidental stepping on feet and mumbled "sorries" - to find a somewhat quiet corner, where he sat down.

It wasn't a particularly large corner nor a particularly scenic one, but it was a quiet one, and that was nice. Matthew liked quiet.

From what he sat, he gazed out at the harbor.

It wasn't, of course, the best view - in fact, it was less a view of the harbor and more of the view of the backs of people gazing at the harbor - but it wasn't as if Matthew didn't know what it would look like if it was. The blue of the water would be glimmering in the sea, the towering skyscrapers reduced to specks in the distance, the grass far, far beneath suddenly stripped of all weeds into a clear swath of green - all very nice, yes, all postcard-perfect pretty and wall-calendar scenic, something that Matthew would normally enjoy, could normally enjoy -

If it weren't for the people.

Pushing, shoving, packed like sardines and thronging just to get a glance at a what was really a lot of grass and steel and water they never really paid much attention to in the first place because now it was suddenly _special_, all the guide books said it and, besides, look at how much it cost to even visit, they wouldn't charge that much for a place that wasn't worth going to -

It just seemed like an awful lot of fuss, that was all.

"Pretty, isn't it?"

If it weren't for the fact that he was sitting in a very wide bench with arm rests, Matthew would have fallen out of his seat.

As it was, there was a moment when his heart leapt into his throat and may have forgotten to beat - but it was only a moment, as it soon settled down and began to beat again, albeit now in the slightly hostile manner of someone who has been through this routine just _one too many times_ already.

Acclimation to insanity, Matthew thought. It couldn't be a good thing.

It did, however, help in keeping his responses more coherent than gasping for breath.

"U-uh, um, yes. It is. Very pretty," he added. "Um," he said, faltering a little under the blank expectancy of dark sunglasses, "a-and impressive, too. Really impressive."

The man - who, by the American flag bandana he wore, Matthew guessed was the father of the Camera Clan - looked vaguely unsatisfied for a moment, then nodded and turned to gaze out at the harbor once more.

There was a moment of extremely awkward silence. Matthew fought the urge to shuffle his feet.

"It's a wonderful city, New York," the man said, though whether he was talking to himself or Matthew it was difficult to tell. "Symbol of everything good in this world. Opportunity, progress, democracy."

There was a pregnant pause, during which he gazed expectantly at Matthew.

"Of America," the man added, taking pity and extracting the answer out of the unresponsive silence.

"Oh - uh, yes? Um. Yay. America."

"Best country in the world," the man said. It was not the type of statement that warranted disagreement.

"Erm -"

"Haven't been to a lot of countries, I haven't. Don't travel a whole lot - don't see why you'd want to. Watch a lot of _news, _you see," he said, voice hoarse and suddenly conspiratorial. "Awful place, the world. Full of thieves and swindlers and pickpockets who would rob the wallet out of your grandmother's pocket – lowlifes, all of them, foreign scum who couldn't run a country if it came with a how-to guide."

"Um -"

"And what do they do when we take pity on them - when we bring them medicine, clothes, food? What do they do when we shoot the bastards running their countries and give them to chance to be _free _for once in their fucking lives?"

"Uh -"

"They _hate _us. Fucking _hate _us when we gave them clean water and decent food, tell lies and resent us and call us dictators because we tried to make their lives a little more civilized. Hate us. _Hate us. _And then!" he said, whirling around, eyes twitching behind tinted lenses. "_Then _they come to our country, bring themselves and their dirt and diseases, drink our food and sleep in our hotels when all they know is their nasty foreign babble, step on American soil when they're not worthy of being stepped on themselves - FILTH!" he suddenly screamed, leaning so close that Matthew could feel the spittle on his face. "Filth, all the fucking bastards! FILTH! Aren't they? _Aren't they?__"_

"Um -uh -"

_"Aren't they?!"_

__"Yes!" Matthew shouted, backing away from the man staring at him. "Yes, yes, they are!"

"Of course they are," the man replied, voice perfectly calm as he straightened up. "Disgusting, really, all of them - ruining my perfectly wholesome vacation with their foreign ways. It's good you know they're no good, though - not a lot of people recognize it these days, and it's a shame. But you, you look like a nice, American boy - nice and sensible, and God knows it's good to know your generation still has some sense - not at all like one of _those, _the young people in my neighborhood who hang around _them _-"

"Hey, Mattie! What'cha doing?"

_Trying to breathe, _one part of Matthew wanted to say, but another part - one that was very happy about getting away from the American flag lunatic talking to him - said, "hi, Gilbert."

"Hi yourself, roomie - though, seriously, what the fuck are you doing here, looks boring as hell, Antonio and Francis aren't even around to pick a fight with - oh, hey!" he said, brightening as he noticed the sunglasses lunatic. "Tourist, huh? - well, then, welcome to New York Fucking City, best place in the whole fucking world - no, but seriously, don't believe any of that Disney World shit, place is cool enough but fucking expensive _as hell, _I think we blew through half my college fund when we visited -"

"Ah, Gilbert, mon ami, back to terrorizing the locals again. Dites-moi, Antonio, why am I not surprised?"

"Because you participate in it half the time?" Antonio answered, sighing as he walked up to his lunatic friends and the lunatic tourist they were accosting. "Hola, señor - my name is Antonio Fernadez Carriedo, and these," he said, quotation marks practically dripping off the word, "are my friends. I wish I could say that they weren't usually like this, but, unfortunately, they are."

"Oh, vous plaisantez, Antonio – ce n'est pas une chose très agréable to say about your friends, non? Francis Bonnefoy, monsieur," he said, gently taking a hand and kissing it. "Enchanté."

"Yeah, yeah, that's very nice and all, but here, take it from _me," _Gilbert said, leaning in in what he must have thought was a covert manner, "Francis seems all nice and harmless in a vaguely gay way at first, but he's really a complete and utter bastard underneath -"

"Excusez-moi, Gilbert, but I believe you were describing yourself again - well, sans the part about seeming 'nice -'"

"Alright, alright niños," Antonio sighed, pulling Francis and Gilbert apart before pushing them away, "come along, now - we don't want to traumatize the nice man, now, do we?"

"The nice man," however, seemed unfortunately too busy staring at his hands in horror to appreciate Antonio's effort.

Pity.

* * *

><p>These things, Matthew decided, ought to come with warning labels.<p>

Like political ads, Matthew thought, or maybe cigarettes - nothing too big, really, just a nice surgeon general's warning that Smoking Causes Lung Cancer, Heart Disease, Emphysema, And May Complicate Pregnancy next to the bright pictures of attractive celebrities cheerfully acquiring lung cancer, heart disease, and emphysema. That was all, really. A nice, helpful warning. Something like "Statue of Liberty: Beware of Tourists with Cameras and Unlimited Patriotism," or maybe "This College Contains High Concentration of Crazy, Apply with Caution," though, really, "Prolonged Exposure to Lunacy May Be Hazardous to Your Health" seemed to sum it all up neatly.

Not that it wouldn't have been nice to have specifics, though. Something like "This Attraction Contains Exorbitantly Long Lines and Dense Crowds," for example, would have been nice. Ultimately futile, yes - the Bad Touch Trio no doubt regarded reading warnings as one of those things for other people, like obeying laws or sleeping - but nice, nonetheless.

He would, at least, be warned before he spent two hours in a line with Gilbert Beilschmidt and Francis Bonnefoy.

It had been Disco Pogo night all over again, with the sole difference this time being that the staring crowd had not been deeply drunk.

Though, Matthew had to admit, the reactions when Francis and Gilbert had begun leaning over the rails and singing Titantic songs at full volume (a mixture of scandal, horror, and "oh God how high _are _they") _had _been quite amusing.

Which was, of course, another sign that insanity was catching.

Matthew sighed - not loudly, no, but apparently audibly enough for the girl serving them wine to glare at him.

Wonderful. Given how well the restaurant staff had responded to Francis's advances, Antonio's inability to resist petting every service dog he saw, and Gilbert's horrible habit of being himself, this meant Matthew could look forward to having his food spit in as well.

Matthew sighed again, not caring this time what the girl thought of him, and wondered why he was even here.

_ (which _was, of course, a terribly ungrateful thing to think and he felt awful about it, really, awful and ungrateful when all they had done was invite him on this trip in the first place, paying for all the tickets and the horrible light-up snow globes they'd seen in the Ellis Island gift shop and then on the way inviting Matthew to what was the probably most expensive restaurant in Rockefeller Center and definitely the most expensive one Matthew had been to, Francis offering to pay for it all and he knew that he should be happy, properly enjoying himself, it would have been _the least _he could do - only, only _only -) _

Well. It would only be considerate_, _that was all.

It was, after all, a nice restaurant. A little intimidating, yes, what with the fancy lighting and bilingual staff and three types of salad fork - but pretty, too, in a velvet and chandeliers and fifty-dollar-entrees kind of way.

Matthew supposed he liked it, even if it was a bit too gilt-and-Gouda for his taste. It was just a little, well, just a little -

Fancy? Pricey? High-end tabloid heiress? -

"This place_," _Gilbert says loudly (but very luckily when the wine server is several feet away), "is _boring."_

- well, _not _exactly (not at all) what Matthew had been looking for, but it worked just as well.

"Je suis désolé," Francis said, not sounding apologetic at all as he flipped through the leather-bound menu, "that I forgot to pick someplace with a children's menu."

Gilbert stuck his tongue out at him.

"Shut up, crayons are totally badass, it's not _my _fault Mommy and Daddy only bought you oil pastels when you were growing up –"

"Um," the black-aproned (and extremely pretty) waitress said, smile faltering for a moment as she approached their table. It quickly returned, though, as she flipped open her notepad and gave them all a dazzling smile.

"Hello, my name's Alice, and I'll be your server today! What can I get for you today?"

"Je voudrais quatre bols de soupe à l'oignon gratinée avec pain et du fromage, suvie par plateaux de fruits de mar - "

"Um - I'm sorry? Could you repeat that, please?"

Slowly, very slowly, and with an air of almost gentrified haughtiness, Francis looked up over his menu -

And then down. And then down, down, and _down -_

"Oh, por el amor de dios," Antonio said, sighing before he kicked Francis in the shin.

_ "-ow, _Antonio, _pourquoi -"_

"Four orders of onion soup, cheese and bread, and trays of seafood for three," Antonio said, cheerfully ignoring Francis. "And then a plate of cookies with four bowls of ice cream. Chocolate and caramel, please."

"Um - okay," the waitress said, briefly glancing at Francis before returning her attention to Antonio, smile slightly confused but still indefatigably cheerful. "Is there anything else you'd like today?"

"Your number peut-être, _mon cher -"_

"Another bottle of wine," Antonio said, smiling as he kicked Francis again (and harder, too, by the sounds of it). "And maybe another one after that, too."

"Well then, I'll just let you decide that later, okay?" Flipping over her notepad, Alice looked up and gave them a brief smile. "Your food should be ready in a bit."

"Thank you."

She nodded, smiled again, and then left.

"Antonio," Francis said, when he had stopped swearing, "je vous jure, that _hurt -_"

"Oh, come on now," Antonio said, rolling his eyes as he reached for his wine, "I didn't kick you _that _hard."

"You didn't have to kick me _at all -"_

"Yeah, seriously Tonio, what the actual fuck, you could have at least let _me _kick him –"

"Oh, s'il vous plaît, Gilbert - comme si nous ne savions pas already that you hit as a hard as a Catholic schoolgirl -"

_ "_- and you would know how hard that is _how? - _Wait, never mind, don't answer that question, I don't need to know more about your creepy fetishes -"

_ "_This is going to be a long wait, isn't it," Antonio muttered, sighing as he sipped his wine.

"Weeeelll, we _could _have just gotten Chipotle, you know, there was one just outside for _fuck's_ sake, could have gone nice and easy if Francis hadn't been such a drama queen about not being able to eat mass produced rice or something, I mean seriously, what the actual fuck, where the hell would you buy locally grown rice, we live in _New York _- fuck that, we should have just ignored him and gone, it would have taken all of thirty minutes and we wouldn't be stuck here staring at Francis's face for two hours -"

"Bien, alors que c'est simply another good reason we came, non?"  
>"Maybe if I was a masochist, yeah - "<p>

"Niños, niños," Antonio said, sighing as he poured himself (another) glass of wine, "please. We're in public. _Stop _fighting."

"But I'm _b-ooooo-red," _Gilbert whined, leaning back in his chair until the top of it nearly touched the head of the woman behind him, "and there's nothing else to d_oooooo_."

"Gilbert, we've only been here ten minutes."

"_See?" _Gilbert cried, throwing his arms up as his chair hit the ground again with a _thwump._ "That means there's another hour and fifty minutes to go!"

"No, Gilbert, we're not there yet. Stop asking or I'm not buying you ice cream anymore."

"_Francis _always gets ice cream," Gilbert grumbled, taking a vehement swig from Francis's wineglasses. "And besiiiides, I'm b_ooooored - _"

"Oh, continuez," Francis said, rolling his eyes as he took his glass back from Gilbert, "il ya plenty of people - crash a date or ask out a waitress or something, ce que vous voulez. Amusez-vous, I know you can do it."

In the silence, Francis sipped calmly at his wine – and then, suddenly, stopped as the full meaning of what he had just said seemed to hit him.

"Okay!" Gilbert said brightly, abruptly pushing his chair in as he stood up. "Seeeee you when the ice cream comes!"

"Gilbert - where are you - oh, merde, Antonio, _again_?"

"What did you expect?" Antonio asked, shrugging as he sipped his wine, Gilbert already long gone. "It's Gilbert - you honestly didn't expect him to sit still for more than five minutes, did you?"

Francis made a _tsk_ing sound, and then he sighed, too.

"Bien entendu, bien entendu," he said, smiling faintly. "What did I expect, non? Gilbert attracts trouble like honey attracts flies."

"And this has been a problem since when?" Antonio asked, cheerfully draining his glass.

"Never, bien sûr! C'est amusant. It's only," Francis added, a (decidedly calculating) note of thoughtfulness creeping into his voice, "it would be _so terrible_, honnêtement, if Gilbert were to do something stupid - which he will, sans doute, il est _Gilbert, _après tout - and we all ended up, well, qui sait? In prison, peut-être, someplace oh so dark and terribly gloomy - et pauvre Mattieu, aussi! - well, it would just be _awful, _tout simplement _horrible_-"

"You know," Antonio said, sighing as he poured himself more wine, "if you didn't want to share the ice cream, you could have just said so."

"Moi?" Francis said, face the very picture of guileless outrage. "You wound me, Antonio - as though I would value mere pastries beyond my friends! Non, mon cher, c'est tout simplement Gilbert and his welfare that I am concerned about - et pauvre Mattieu - we cannot simply invite him on a grand tour of New York City and end up in a correction center, mon Dieu, it _simply _wouldn't do at all -"

"Alright, alright," Antonio said, putting his hands up in resignment as he stood up, "lo comprendo, lo comprendo - it's my turn to go and baby-sit Gilbert while you sit here and eat macarons and chocolate ice cream. Lo comprendo. I'm going, ¿bien?"

"Ah, je t'aime, Antonio, je t'aime vraiment -"

"Sí, sí," Antonio said, brushing Francis off in a gesture that would have been dismissive if he weren't smiling so widely. "Although, I have to remind you, this is the thirteenth time it's been my turn to do this - "

"Ah, but mon ami, you do it so well-"

"Mostly because you prefer to join in with him," Antonio said, rolling his eyes as he carefully pushed his chair in. "Y déjame some of those profiteroles this time, okay?"

"Oui, oui, maman," Francis said, smiling indulgently and holding up his wine glass as Antonio walked away. "Bien sûr, bien sûr."

Alice comes by two times after that, brings more wine and obligatory bread and queries about how they were doing. Francis hits on her blatantly (and surprisingly chivalrously) each time, but she doesn't seem to mind it too much – laughs at his ridiculously outdated pick-up lines, smiles when he begins segueing into French for his compliments, actually _flips her hair_ when she notices his eyes on her chest (something Matthew had thought only terrible pop singers and people in movies did) – and by the end of the second visit, Francis not only has her number but also her email, her schedule, and a date for next Wednesday.

It all happened so quickly, too, Matthew couldn't help feeling a little dazed by the end of it, but Francis didn't seem to be much affected by it.

"Plus de vin, mon ami?"

"Um, no thank you," Matthew said, smiling briefly as he held up his full wineglass.

"Ou plus de pain? Honnêtement, mon cher, it's almost two, you _must _be quite hungry by now, et vous n'avez pas mangé beaucoup ce matin, aussi –"

"Non, non, ce n'est pas grave - je n'ai pas faim. Vraiment," he added, holding up his hands and smiling as Francis continued to look doubtful.

"Weeell," Francis said, the doubt still not entirely gone as he reached to refill his wineglass, "if you say so, mon cher. If you so say. But do try some, though," he added, pushing the breadbasket towards Matthew, "c'est du très bon pain, and it would be waste if we didn't eat it, non?"

After hesitating a moment, Matthew nodded and, smiling, took a piece.

It was, as Francis had said, quite good bread – warm and thick and yeasty, it was spread thick with rosemary and thyme and olives that went beautifully with the olive oil aioli it had come with.

And as he took another piece, Matthew found himself completely and suddenly ravenous.

They sat for a while, then, in a sort of comfortable silence, Matthew quietly attacking the breadbasket's contents while Francis slowly sipped his wine.

"Well, mon cher?" Francis asked, after a few moments of silence. "Vous me admirant – very understandable, bien entendu – or is there something you want to talk about, hm?"

"W-what?"

"Oh, ne semblez pas tellement supris, mon cher," Francis said, "you've only been stealing glances at me for the last half-hour. Il est evident qui vous voulez parler avec moi, non? So talk."

Matthew hesitated a moment, and then nodded.

"Well, yes, actually. I was, well, wondering if I could ask you something."

"Bien entendu, mon cher," Francis said, gently swirling his wine between two fingers. "Demandez l'écart."

Matthew nodded, did not look up.

"Well - about earlier," he began, then stopped, unsure of how to continue. "Um."

"Well?" Francis prompted, but his voice was gentle, soft. "What about earlier?"

"Um." Glance up, tentatively meet patient blue eyes_._ "Well - it's just - um, earlier, at the Statue, before Antonio interrupted, you said something about wondering about Gilbert, and I was just, it's just that I was, well - kind of wondering what you meant?If that's okay with you," he added hurriedly, becoming very interested in his shoelaces again.

"Porquoi pas?" Francis asked. "It's a perfectly natural thing to wonder. Although," he added, smiling as he sipped at his wine, "je m'excuse si mes réponses ne sont pas _quite _as exciting as you expected."

He smiled, again. It was a friendly smile, a gentle one. And - slowly, _slowly - _Matthew smiled back.

"That's okay," Matthew said, voice quiet but smile still present, "I was just curious."

"And with reason, too," Francis replied, "si vous vivrez avec Gilbert pour - what? the next four years? - Mon _Dieu, _that would be a nightmare, et combien plus the fact that you know hardly a thing about Gilbert and his friends whisper about him in secret? Perfectly reasonable, mon ami, perfectly reasonable.

"Et pour votre question - well," Francis said, shrugging slightly as he idly swirled his wine, "who wouldn't? It's _Gilbert. _He picks arguments with police officers, tries to seduce prostitutes, knows the chemical formula of and how to synthesize every substance banned in America but also – et pour l'amour de Dieu! - forgets that he burns like cheap tissue paper in the sun. _Et _cette is only what Antonio and I know from a year of knowing him, mon cher. That poor family," Francis said, shaking his head, "living with Gilbert for nineteen years - how they _survived,_ je ne sais pas_, _je ne sais pas _tout simplement. _And one wonders, non? One wonders how _they _did it - et aussi how, exactly, Gilbert managed to survive beyond the age of four without dying (although, entre vous et moi, it _is _quite possible there was some brain damage -")

The sound of an alarm, somewhere outside going off, interrupted Francis.

"Oh, _mon Dieu," _Francis groaned, placing a hand over his face as the other patrons stared around in startled shock, "not _again."_

Sighing, Francis poured the rest of the wine into his glass, sipped at it pensively for a few moments before abruptly drowning the contents and standing up in one fluid, elegant motion.

"Well, mon ami," Francis said, straightening his shirt cuffs as the siren glared around them, "_je suppose_ we ought to help Antonio. Pity," he said, gazing sadly around the restaurant, "and I was _so _looking forward to the ice cream, too."

* * *

><p>Outside, the day was sunny, fresh - picture-perfect pleasant, really, except for the police officers standing in the middle of it.<p>

And what made the terrible picture worse was the – in retrospect, not completely unexpected but nonetheless terrifying –fact that they were talking to two very, very familiar faces.

There was a crowd. Matthew wasn't sure whether it was a basic rule of New York City or the Bad Touch Trio, but there was always a crowd. Matthew was fairly certain there could be a professional assassination in a dark alley and there would still be a crowd. They were like pigeons, really, or maybe tourists.

If he would have to guess, though, Matthew would say tourists; pigeons weren't quite so good at making you feel like you were an exhibition at the zoo.

Also, pigeons didn't have cameras.

They were taking _pictures, _actually taking pictures – not even NBC people or journalists, that would have been bad enough, but actual random bystanders_, _normal, everyday people with calzones and Coke cans who just _stood there,_ camera phones open and blink-blink-blinking away.

It was like very strange, like something out of a dazed dream, Wonderland and rabbits smudged with the scent of cigarette smoke and halal gyros; Matthew was sure that if he stepped any closer, touched anything or said anything, it would all fade away, vanish like smoke into the air.

"What, again?_" _Francis asked, but there was more outrage than surprise in his voice. "And _I _wasn't invited? Bien, allons-y, Mattieu," he said, tugging the other boy forward as he began wading through the crowd, "I am going to have to have un discours _très grave_ avec un idiot certaine –"

Matthew nodded, "um-ed" and "yes-ed" at opportune moments as Francis continued, but he wasn't listening. Couldn't, not when, inside his head, the pictures were already starting to form – bright TV screens and newspaper reporters, polished wood and the Dean of Education gravely shaking his head, the shock and outrage in his parents' eyes that he knew was hiding the disappointment they didn't dare admit –

Matthew found that suddenly breathing was very, very difficult.

"Excusez-moi, excusez-moi," Francis said as he pushed people out of the way, grip firm on Matthew's wrist, "merci, thank you, _excusez-moi, _pardon– _merde, _ce un _salaud –"_

Images. Images images images: all the hundreds of scenarios, thousands of could-haves and what-ifs, what was the worst that could happen coming to vivid life inside his mind –

"That's what happened, I swear – pinkie-promise, cross my heart and hope to die –"

"Antonio! Gilbert!" Francis called, pushing his way to the front of the crowd with Matthew in tow. "Que faites-vous –"

"_Francis? _Oh, God no, we don't need your ugly face here –"

"_Excusez-moi _Gilbert, but I do think you must need another vision check, tu sait qui mon visage est _très _belle_–"_

"-compared to what?"

_"Dios mio, niños –" _

"Hey," the police officer said, interrupting the fracas and pointing to Francis, "are you friends with these guys?"

"Well, yes," Francis said, and Matthew is sure he feels the bottom go out of his stomach, "_mon dieu, _why else would anyone want anything to do with them –"

The officer nods, slowly turns around.

"Well then," he said, "in that case, I'm going to have to tell you –"

- he was going to arrest them, pull out a pair of handcuffs and demand Matthew and Francis put their hands up, say it _in front of the whole crowd too, _every moment of it recorded on a hundred blurry mobile screens, and _oh God _what if they really ended up on television? What if what if what _if _– and oh God oh God _oh God –_

_ "_-to get these two somewhere else. Maybe somewhere with a drink," he added, running a hand through his hair, "I think that might help with the shock."

_-wait._

"Shock?" Matthew asks, blinking as he pulls his hand away from Francis.

"More likely than not," the officer answered, tucking his pad of paper into a pocket, "seeing an assault like – well, you can't help but be shaken up by something like that. Either way, a stiff drink or two would probably help –"

"Assault?"

"Yeah!" Gilbert says, voice ridiculously enthusiastic for someone in shock. "There was this guy who got pissed at the girl at the candy counter, pretty fucking _stupid _actually, if you ask me, what the hell is there to get angry about in a candy store? Raisinets? – although, okay, those things are pretty disgusting, who the fuck _likes _raisins who isn't at least eighty years old –"

"It's probably the shock, officer," Antonio said, trying desperately to keep a straight face as he tugged Gilbert away, "estoy _seguro _that he'll be better once we get those drinks you suggested –_muchas gracias _for your help –"

"-so that was when we started on him – mostly me, of course, but Toni, too, and some of the other people who'd seen – although it _was _mostly me –"

"Shock?" Francis said, raising an eyebrow as they walked away from the officer. "Si _seulemente._"

"Eh, lo hizo, ¿no? Besides, I _do _want a drink –"

"-I mean, you _don't _fucking do shit like that to people, the girl was like sixteen and had to be taken away by an E M fucking T–"

"I know, I know," Antonio said, sighing as he patted Gilbert on the shoulder, "yo sé. Some _people – _pero debemos stop thinking about this. Let's just get a drink instead, ¿bien?"

"As if you had to ask," Gilbert said, but some of the glower still lingered in his eyes. "C'mon, let's go to Times Square and get plastered."

* * *

><p>And they would, no doubt, gone to Times Square and gotten plastered, if it weren't for Times Square.<p>

Again, another thing that Matthew, in retrospect, should have _really _seen coming.

Times Square was all shops and crowded streets, a million people going everywhere at once alongside the taxi drivers who cursed and blared their horns at them as the billboards above proclaimed the virtues of a million diet pills and skin care products: an epileptic's nightmare, it was also the perfect place for several impulsive college students to get lost in.

Which, Matthew thought with a mental sigh, was _exactly _what was going to happen. Very soon, in fact.

"– I don't know, Francis, I really can't see myself wearing this –"

" – oh, but _Antonio, _croyez-moi, the color, _c'est _parfait –"

Probably once the moment Francis turned around, too.

Matthew sighed, shuffled a little on the bench as he watched Francis continue to press some combination poncho-coat-dramatic-Draculaesque-cape on Antonio. Under his feet, his bag of new (Francis-approved) clothes rustled with the movement.

It was, Matthew decided as he continued watching at the Bad Touch Trio in action, indeed, a very strange piece of clothing – certainly not something he'd expect Antonio to wear of his own free will, but somehow Francis managed to force him into a dressing room with the poncho-coat-dramatic-Draculaesque-cape thing.

"Oh mon _dieu," _Francis murmured as Antonio came out, looking slightly awkward and significantly more like someone who had walked out of a theatre's prop closet, _"_Antonio, you look–"

"– like some hipster douche that walked out of Pretentiousness 101–"

"– _wonderful," _Francis said, absent-mindedly hitting Gilbert with a clothes hanger as he continued to stare adoringly at Antonio. "Oh, _yes, _Maman _was _correct _– _I am _good _at this, _very _good – _c'est _parfait, I knew it _dès_ le moment où je l'ai vu – it fits you well, _very _well, in fact – ne pensez-vous pas, Antonio?"

"If you say so," Antonio said, more than a little bit doubtfully tugging at the poncho-coat-cape he was currently draped in. "I'm still not sure, though – pero, puuues, un pocito demasiado, well, black? And expensive," he added, lifting up the price tag and staring at it in horror.

"No, nonsense, mon ami! Ne savez-vous pas? – _black _never goes out of season, it's simply not something you can overdo. D'ailleurs, you need something to balance out all the Technicolor you wear – et ne vous inquiétez pas au sujet du prix, I can pay for it, of course."

"_Not fair, _Francis,how come both Mattie and _Toni _get these super fancy-ass gratis French wardrobe makeovers, and I don't?"

"Because I promised Antonio one earlier and because Matthieu is adorable and, lastly, because _you_ arehopeless, mon ami, complètement _désespérée_," Francis replied, snatching a green scarf from a random rack. "Now, Antonio, if you could try _this _on, too –"

Matthew watched them for a while longer, but after a while his eyes began to wander. Gilbert and Antonio could watch people get assaulted and then harass Francis about his ridiculously non-heterosexual hobbies without blinking an eye, but Matthew was still rather shaken from his near run-in with the wrong side of the law, and the edges of his mind were still fuzzy with the shock members of the Bad Touch Trio apparently never felt. Culture shock, he expected. Too much time spent in sleepy suburbs and not enough in the types of places where helping stop violent battery was just par for the course, the type of thing you did before stopping at Starbucks.

Oh well. He couldn't help that, now could he?

So Matthew let himself rest, closed his eyes against the world and let his mind go blank. It'd been a long day, after all, and all he really needed, now, was some proper peace and quiet.

When he opened his eyes a few minutes, the Bad Touch Trio was nowhere to be seen.

Matthew blinked, then took out his cell phone and checked the time.

6:07. A grand total of three minutes had passed since he'd closed his eyes.

Well. This was…odd. He certainly hadn't expected this to actually happen.

Matthew decided against panicking, however, and instead picked up his bags and walked into the store, strolled quietly and methodologically through each aisle.

No one in sight.

Okay. That was still okay. If there was no one inside the store, then it only meant that they were somewhere else, right? Probably outside, distracted by something shiny in a storefront. Right. That was probably it.

So, bags in hand, Matthew walked out –

– and immediately realized what he'd forgotten in his plan: _Times Square._

He stared out at the crowds, trying desperately to curb the dismay he felt building as he stared out across head after head. There were just _so _many people –

Okay. Okay. It'd been only three minutes, after all, and even if there were a lot (so many, so _so _many) of people and maybe quite a few more shops than he was used to seeing in Goshen (lined back-to-back and side-to-side, oh God _so many), _they couldn't be that far, right? _Right? _(even if they could, they could, and there were a million people here and a million places they could be –)

– _why_ hadn't he gotten their phone numbers? Wasn't that one of those basic things you were supposed to do when you met someone? With friends? – though, maybe, if he'd actually had more than a total of three friends, he would actually _know _about things like this –

– no. _No. _That was panicky and uselessly despairing and scarily close to self-pity. All of which were _not _conductive if he didn't want his Panic Attack of the Day Count to go up to two. It was (_he was) _okay (okay okay _okay), _nice and good and manageable. He knew where the University was, could find a Metro and ride back there if worst came to worst (even if he didn't know _how_ to get there, which route to take or which stop to get off at), and if all else failed, well, there was still the police, right? Weren't they supposed to help with these kinds of things, lost tourists and whatnot? Right?

_Right._

So that was good, that was nice to know. That was a nice last resort, if he had to go to it. But, in the meanwhile, Matthew could just continue looking for his roommate and his friends in peace. Right?

Right.

So he did. Waded through the crowds, trying desperately not to notice when his skin brushed someone else's as he searched for a glint of white hair, desperately hoping to hear a snatch of French or a lost Spanish phrase, to see or hear a sign a word anything any any _anything –_

Nothing.

_Nothing._

All he saw were faces, faces unrecognizable and unfamiliar, faces _faces _everywhere, right left edging him on all corners and all strange, all unusual, everything familiar and _known _lost within the throng of sheer _people –_

Someone jostled against him, and Matthew lost his balance, trip-stumble-fell in the middle of the sidewalk, new clothes spilling everywhere as people walked around him. A few of the passersby helped, gathering clothes and handing them back to him; stumbling to his feet, Matthew murmured his thanks.

There was dirt and taste of blood when Matthew got to his feet, and lights, lights, (_so many) _lights – but it was okay, it was (_he was) _okay (okay okay _okay, even if it was all too much, too many people and so many lights that it was garish, Salvador Dali bright, and he was drowning, drowning in a sea of colors and people and what might have been tears at the edge of his vision –) _

"Mattie! Hey, there you are!"

Matthew blinked, and suddenly he was being attacked by a blur of white hair and red eyes.

"_Where _were you, seriously, Tonio and Francis are still looking around – getting lost, probably, couldn't find their way out of paper bag, fucking _pathetic, _really_ – _but, seriously, where were you? – Toni saw this really tacky I NYC shirt in a store, so we were going to surprise you with it, because you haven't properly been to the city until you've got one of those things, but then we check out and, bam! Gone. Seriously, what _gives?"_

Gilbert paused, then, glanced at Matthew with the largest grin on his face and excitement and expectation in his eyes –

– and then stopped.

"Hey, Mattie, are you okay?"

-_no, no he wasn't, not when it was like this too many lights and too many streets and too many names and eyes and _people, _so _so_ many (all seeing all watching, taking him in and quietly taking him apart) that he_ _couldn't move couldn't see couldn't couldn't breathe – _

"Roomie – hey, roomie? Roomie?"

Worry in the words – stronger nowthan before, edging on incipient panic. Worry. Worry (_and that was rude, Matthew knew, that was wrong, wrong wrong wrong when he was only the guest, after all, and mustn't complain mustn't criticize impose make a fuss be a_ bother_ –) _

"Mattie?!"

"I – I think I need somewhere to sit down," Matthew managed to say, not making eye contact as he slowly pulled his hand out of Gilbert's. His hands were shaking, slightly, and he put them in his pockets to stop.

"Okay," Gilbert finally says, and his voice is more subdued than Matthew has ever heard it. "Let's find one."

* * *

><p>They did, a small table inside a tiny diner between the edge of Times Square and nowhere. It was not a fancy store, and certainly not the type of place to attract much more than the occasional passerby – but it was a quiet one, empty except for them and the waitress chewing gum at the dusty counter.<p>

Gilbert orders them both cream soda floats, taps his fingers on the table and talks an endless stream of nonsense as they eat. He seems in no hurry to text Francis and Antonio, and that is okay with Matthew, who quietly sits and sips at his soda.

"- so, yeah, and of course that was when _Francis _had to fucking say something –"

Matthew nods, wordlessly stares outside the window as he clutches at his soda.

"-I mean, _what _the actual hell –"

There was a couple outside. Through the dusty window, Matthew could see them, a pretty girl in a too-short skirt and a dark-haired boy in skinny jeans holding hands, all lanky teenage limbs and daring as they stumbled through the empty streets, laughing.

"-who even _says _that, I mean _fuck, _I'm pretty sure it's been a couple of hundred of years since the nineteenth century –"

The teenagers had stopped, now, were leaning against the wall outside the diner as they alternately gasped for breath and laughed. They were, Matthew realized, very, very young – probably no more than fourteen or fifteen. Far too young to be running around the streets of New York City. Where were their parents?

The girl giggles and in the dim light, Matthew could see that her eyes were the clearest shade of green.

"-but, seriously, though, are you okay?"

Matthew starts, turns away from the window and stares at Gilbert out of surprise and reflex. Then, after a moment, lowers his eyes on the tablecloth.

"You were pretty freaked out there, you know," Gilbert says, and again his voice is just so _restrained _it almost feels eerie."Feeling any better?"

Matthew takes a while to answer that, slowly swirls his drink as he stares at the checkered tablecloth.

"I think so," he says finally. Quietly, still not looking up at Gilbert.

"You sure? I mean, I know Times Square's pretty big, lots of security and all so it's usually real safe, but the City's still pretty rough – so if _anyone _did anything –"

"No!" Matthew says, shocked as he stares up at Gilbert. "No, it wasn't that, it wasn't _anything _like that –"

"Then what?" Gilbert asks, so quickly that it is almost astute.

Matthew's eyes dropped back to the tablecloth.

"It's just," he began, then stopped. "Just, well, I'm not good with people, that's all."

Um.

"Not _exactly _people," he clarified, "just, well – lots of people, I guess. Crowds, mostly."

Right after the words left his mouth, it struck Matthew just how stupid telling something like this to _Gilbert Beilschmidt, _of all people, was.

Gilbert, however, only nodded and said, "okay."

Well, technically, he didn't _only _say okay, as with Gilbert Beilschmidt it was never just "okay," but neither were there any of things Matthew had expected, no incredulous stares or "why the fuck would you think _that?" _comments. Just…okay.

Okay.

Which was…unexpected.

But nice. Nice, too.

* * *

><p>Antonio and Francis arrived a few minutes after Gilbert texted them, entering the store in typical Bad Touch Trio fashion, a flurry of bags and tinkling bells and <em>mon dieus <em>as they rush over to Matthew.

"– o _dios mio_, Matthew, I'm _so _sorry – are you okay? Did anything happen? Are you okay? – pero _dios mio, _I didn't mean for it to happen, I'm so _so _sorry, really –"

"– _honnêtement, _Gilbert, you should have called us earlier, tu ne sais _pas _how worried we were – vous allez _bien, _non? Etes sûr?"

"Oui, oui – je vais bien, je suis sûr –"

"– êtes sûr? Très, très _sûr_?"

" – _so _sorry, I _really, really _am, _dios mio, _I am–"

"Oui! Très sûr! Vous _n'avez pas_ à vous soucier, vraiment –"

" – really, really all my fault, Isaw this silly T-shirt and then you got lost, don't know what I can do to make it up to you –"

"You can start by giving him some fucking _breathing space," _Gilbert snapped. "Mattie's freaked out enough, don't be an asshole and make it worse."

Which was unexpected enough to make Francis and Antonio stop and more than unexpected enough for Matthew to forget the claustrophobia creeping up on him.

"Oh," Francis said, coughing as he awkward moved away from Matthew. "Of course – well. Je suis désolé, mon cher."

"Y yo también," Antonio said, following Francis's example and gingerly stepping away. "I know I already said it but, well – I'm sorry. I really am."

And after that, suddenly no one had anything to say.

"So what do we do, tout de suite?" Francis asked, breaking the silence. "Eat here, premier, or return to campus–"

"Don't be silly, Francis, of course we're going straight back to campus – pobre Matthew's been through enough today, _honestamente –_"

"Wait, wait – who said anything about going back?" Gilbert asked, looking at Francis and Antonio in surprise. "This trip isn't even _over, _okay – we haven't even gone to the most awesome stop!"

"Oh_, ave Maria, _not now, Gilbert – we don't have time for another 'super-secret-special-awesome plot twists' –"

"But it _is _awesome, Toni –"

"– not when Matthew is so upset already –"

"– oh _come on, _Tonio, when the hell did you get to decide everything –"

"– this is not up for debate, Gilbert, alright? – this is not something we are going to vote on, I'm sure Matthew would agree –"

"Eh bien, why don't you ask him?"

And suddenly all eyes were on Matthew.

"Mattie?" Antonio said, and his voice was ridiculously gentle – like someone talking to a scared child or coaxing a startled animal. "It's okay if you don't want to go – we won't be offended or anything."

"It really is awesome, though," Gilbert added, "you'll like it."

There were two pairs of eyes on Matthew, and both were equally pleading.

"Um…"

"And I promise the asshole per square mile quotient is lower than it is here," Gilbert added.

And even Francis groaned and Antonio gave Gilbert another of his terribly scandalized stare, Matthew couldn't help it – he started laughing.

And that shut everyone up quite a bit.

"Okay," Matthew said, when he could breathe without his stomach aching again, "I think I'd like to go."

"Are you sure?" Antonio asked, worry still in his eyes. "You don't have to –"

"Yes," Matthew said, still smiling. "I like going to places with low asshole densities."

And who wouldn't be sold on that?

* * *

><p>The ride to reveal the "super-secret-special-awesome plot twist" was short and almost scarily quiet ("it's a see-cr-et, of course I can't tell you," "he really won't, c'est vraiment quite stupid"), but as they neared their destination, the groans began.<p>

"_Honnêtement, _Gilbert, you took Mattieu all the way here just to show him your bedroom –"

"Fuck you, Francis, my bedroom's awesome. And _no, _asshole, I'm not – that's legitimately creepy, who even does that besides perverts like you –"

"– people who don't hang _Toy Story_ posters on their walls, peut-être?"

"You are arriving at Second Avenue, Lower East Side," the automated voice overhead announced, cutting off what would have been a truly impressive retort from Gilbert – and one which he launched into the moment they were outside the station.

"What are you talking about, Francis?" Antonio asked after several minutes of intense debate and accusations of homosexuality. "I'm pretty sure you cried during _Ratatouille_, too –"

Lower East Side, Matthew noticed as they turned a corner, was – though undoubtedly still crowded – not nearly as polished as Times Square had been; there were barely any obnoxious billboards, and no men in Elmo costumes accosted them as they walked. And as they continued walked, Matthew noticed that the buildings got a little older, the languages on the streets a little more varied, the asshole per square mile quotient a little lower –

"– no, fuck you, just because _Robin Hood _kind of sucked doesn't mean you can just go and discount classic Disney like that –"

"– _Lion King, _Francis, I thought you liked _Lion King, too –"_

– and the drama of the current argument exponentially higher.

"Bien, bien!" Francis said finally, collapsing against a lamppost. "Je comprends – it has come to this. Adieu, mes amis – your inferior cinematic taste has left me no choice but to sever all ties. Adieu, adieu – jusqu'à ce qu'il soit jour."

"Yeah, well, I don't need you either," Gilbert said, shrugging, "c'mon Mattie, let's blow this shitty black-and-white crepe stand –"

And with that, he proceeded to take Matthew's arm and stride angrily away.

"Um, Gilbert," Matthew said, glancing back as he tried to keep up with Gilbert, "I don't think anyone's coming after us –"

"Well, _yeah," _Gilbert said, not slowing one bit as he stared at Matthew as though he'd grown another head,_ "_that was kind of the whole point of the plan."

And despite not knowing about and still highly doubting the existence of a plan, Matthew went along with it.

He had a feeling that this attitude had been the root of a lot of his recent problems, but as he ran through the streets – turning sharp corners and splashing puddles of laundry water on passersby who swore at him with foreign words – he decided it was (_he was) _still okay (okay okay _okay –)_

(– and much more besides.)

They stop on the doorstep of an old, slightly weathered apartment ("my Vati's place, but don't worry, I'm not actually going to bore you with my room or whatever"), from which Gilbert – after punching in a code that is mostly asterisks and numbers – takes a key hanging around the inside of the doorknob ("won't your parents notice?" "You mean Vati? Nah, he works real late, practically lives in the office") and ushers Matthew up the stairs.

At the top, Gilbert unlocks a door, and then they step out into cool night air.

The view is not as scenic as it was from the Empire State Building or even the Statue of Liberty, but it is much quieter up here, the Manhattan buzz only background and not foreground noise in the absence of tourists.

In the darkness, there is no one else but them, and the night sky is full of stars.

"My Opa used to take me up here sometimes," Gilbert said, putting the key away and leading Matthew out onto the deck, "the neighborhood's not really crowded and there's not too much industry over here, so the view's pretty good. Anyway, so we'd sit here, and he'd point out all the constellations and tell me about them – apparently the old gods were all kind of dicks, Hera was a complete PMSing bitch and there wasn't _anything _Zeus wouldn't bang –"

"Kind of like Francis?"

"Like Francis with _unlimited power, _holy fuck, what a nightmare _that _would be – I mean, you see that?" he asked, pointing at a cluster of stars. "That's Cygnus – supposed to look like a swan, 'parently – that's the neck there, see it?"

"…no?"

"Yeah, neither do I," Gilbert said, shrugging and sitting on the edge of the roof, "I always thought the Greeks were high when they thought of this stuff. But, anyway, so Cygnus is a swan and not just the shitty X it really is because Zeus once turned into a swan and decided to have sex with some chick –"

"Leda?" Matthew prompted, sitting down next to him, legs dangling over the streets below.

"Yeah, that one – apparently she had some sort of bird-fetish or Zeus was really just _that _hot as a swan, because seriously, why would _any_one want to do that –"

"Furries don't count, then?"

There were several moments of intensely awkward silence.

"What?" Matthew asked, trying desperately not to blush as Gilbert stared at him. "We had internet and I had a lot of spare time."

"4chan?"

"Um…_once_?"

"Prank?"

Matthew nodded. "Never again."

"Never again," Gilbert agreed, shuddering slightly. "Even _Francis _gets creeped out by some of the stuff on /b/, and that is fucking _saying _something – although Luddy seemed okay when we were browsing through, which is kind of really, really disturbing now that I think of it – actually, _how _did we even get on this topic, I don't want to think about what my little brother does in his bedroom, _what _were we even talking about –"

"We were talking about swans raping people."

"Oh yeah, we were, weren't we? Yeah, the Greeks were fucking_ weird, _too – Opa's _stories, _oh God, apparently he had to learn _all _about that shit while he was in school, part of some classics bullshit at the gymnasium he went to –"

"Gymnasium?"

"Yeah – that's the fancy-ass school smart kids go to in Germany, which was probably why Vati and Old Fritz always got so pissed when I'd get into fights or some other shit – probably explains Luddy, too, now that I think about it, because he'd always get on my case, too – _fucking _family trait passed through several generations, the curse of the Beilschmidts, actually."

"Except you?"

"_Obviously – _just too fucking awesome for stuff like that, you know? Although Opa was pretty cool, too," he added, after a pause, "did all sorts of stuff – went to Uni and all the usual stuff like all the other fancy-ass stuff

"Nah," Gilbert said, "not for a couple of years. Moved out after Luddy hit high school and Vati could trust us not to burn the house down entirely."

_Only partially, _Matthew was tempted to say, but instead he asked, "where is he now?"

For a while, Gilbert didn't answer, just sat there, suddenly intensely interested in the stars again.

"In Sanssouci," he said finally.

"Oh." Matthew was silent for a while, too, quiet as he watched Gilbert trace patterns in the dust. "Do you ever visit him?"

Another silence, so long this time that – if it weren't for prior experience – Matthew would have wondered if Gilbert had heard him.

"No," Gilbert says, and the words are softer this time, quieter than Matthew has ever heard Gilbert. "Can't afford it. Funeral was expensive enough."

And then Gilbert is quiet, and then there is silence and then there is shock.

"Oh my God," Matthew begins, "I'm _so –"_

"Sorry?" Gilbert finishes, and there is this small smile on his face, a tiny ghost of a thing as he turns to Matthew. "Nah, it's okay – it's not that bad, that shit was all a year ago. Only sad thing about the whole business now is how _cheap _you have to be to not let your own kids visit their dead grandfather over the summer, I mean _fuck, _Vati, I would have paid for half too, y'know, _how_ fucking much can two plane tickets cost? 'Sides," he added, almost-smile fading a light, "things aren't that sad after a year."

"I'm still sorry about it, though."

"Yeah, well," Gilbert said, shrugging, "so am I."

And for a while, there was silence.

Then Gilbert begins talking again, so softly at first Matthew has to strain to hear him.

"And that's Andromeda, and that's Leo over there –"

* * *

><p>"We should get Francis and Antonio," Gilbert says when he finishes, the night sky categorized into a dozen myths and demigods, "make sure they aren't getting drunk off their asses without us or anything like that. 'Sides, it's pretty late, and it's not like they can hold their own in a bar fight or anything."<p>

"Okay."

Gilbert nods, stands up and takes his cell phone out.

"Sorry about Times Square," he says, pausing in the middle of his texting to look at Matthew over his phone. There is a smile on his face, but it is apologetic. "Guess I should have asked first, huh?"

And Matthew suddenly finds himself saying "no, no – that's fine," as he stands up, too. "It was really nice that you asked me – I wouldn't have done anything anyways."

"Doesn't mean I shouldn't have _fucking _asked," Gilbert said, scowling slightly as he kicked at a piece of gravel. "I mean, it's not like you could do anything about it – it was pretty much just Francis, Tonio, and me dragging you around wherever-the-fuck."

"Well, yes," Matthew admitted, "but the food was pretty good, so that makes it all okay."

"Really?"

"Really. That was some _wonderful _French food."

Matthew smiled.

"Hmf," Gilbert finally said, turning around with his hands in his pockets, "if you think that was proper food, then we really need to get you to Francis's place sometime – or, better yet, my house because, really, fuck Francis, my cooking is obviously way better than his will ever be."

An image of exploding blue cake with eggshells in it briefly crossed Matthew's mind, and he can't stop from making a sound that might have been a laugh.

"Hey, I'm serious," Gilbert said, whirling around with indignation in every move, "German food _is _the best – not that shitty stuff you buy at Costco's, fuck that stuff, it's disgusting – but actual, real German food, _that_ stuff is pretty fucking awesome. Ever had soßklopse, or Königsberger marzipan? – Opa used to make it all the time, 'cept when I'd skip school or get Bs in some class, he wouldn't let me have any, so half the time it was always just Luddy who got any –"

"You skipped school _half the time?" _

"Hey, it's not like they were teaching anything interesting – most of it was just repeating the same stuff over and over again: hey, kids, here's how you solve quadratics, now do the same thing eighty million times in a row so you can remember how to do it – boring shit, really, they mentioned Prussia, what, twice? – I mean, really, fuck you tenth-grade history class, that's bull –"

"You should have taken AP Euro, then."

"Yeah, I did that," Gilbert said, running a hand through his hair, "junior year, all the kids in there were total tools, too scared to pull even the fucking _fire alarm – _I mean, come _on, _we had drills fifty times a year, I'm pretty even the principals couldn't tell the different – although the teacher was pretty cool, basically one of those dropout beatniks from Marxism 101 who brought in organic cookies every other day and would interrupt class to ramble on about Solidarity or patriarchy or why prostitution should be legalized, pretty interesting stuff, actually –"

There was, really, no stopping Gilbert when he started – so Matthew did the next best thing, and listened.

* * *

><p>It was late when they got back to NYU, halfway between when the last nightclubs began opening and when the first bars began kicking people out, but Matthew didn't mind. Francis and Antonio had both had enough drinks to be not entirely sober but not enough to begin plotting spontaneous nightclub takeovers again, and Gilbert didn't seem in the mood for doing so, either, so it was a relatively peaceful ride back to the dorms – with 'relatively' being the most important word in that description.<p>

Halfway through Francis's fourth attempt to pick up a(nother) date, Matthew can't help but think of what Francis himself had told him earlier, about Gilbert and surviving and knowing everything about chemistry except to stay away from UV lights, and wonders if Francis knew he could have been describing himself, too.

That was okay, though. Francis always did everything with such class, even impropriety, that somehow it all became charming.

The metro stopped a few blocks from NYU, so they walked the rest of the way, stopping occasionally for spontaneous dance numbers, pondering of the universe's secrets ("I mean, have you ever wondered if dogs can get high, too –" "_don't you even try." _"Ah, Antonio, n'est pas _amusant –_" "You shouldn't do that to dogs. What if they got addicted?"), and general traumatizing of the occasional bystanders and odd tonsil-hockey playing couple.

It was a nice night, warm and clear with a soft breeze that blew through it. Above, the stars shone down, Cassiopeia and Ursa Majors and Minor as bright as the moon and the moon as bright as a coin on streets that were – if not quite empty – close enough.

* * *

><p>Notes:<p>

I felt a little strange with writing the tourism parts - it felt a little sharper than the humor I generally do, especially since I do love to travel – so go ye forth and be tourists! Just not the obnoxious kind ^^;

Bacillus - a genus of "Gram-positive, rod-shaped bacteria," according to Wikipedia

Currently, the Statue of Liberty is closed to the public because of renovation, meaning that people can't go inside - however, for purposes of plot, please imagine the visit occurs a little before/after the renovation process. In addition, going to the Statue is actually fairly cheap, with the bulk of fees coming from paying to go across in the Ferry. The Empire State Building, however, IS pretty expensive and, when I visited it, EXTREMELY crowded.

The restaurant I used was Brasserie Ruhlmann, which is real and apparently very posh and French. Food was taken off the online menu, although certain details are my own invention, not being rich enough to actually go there ^^; As another side note, the bread eaten was fougasse, which Wikipedia makes look really delicious

I think the moment I realized I was insane was when I began Googling maps of the night sky so I could have accuracy for the rooftop scene. As it is, the map's probably inaccurate as hell anyway because I know nothing about astronomy. I am disheartened to say this legitimately grieves me.

Maybe that's why I'm single.

Translations (MY GOD I hate you Francis, stop speaking in languages no one around you can understand):

Bien – basically "fine" in French (apparently)

Bien entendu/ sûr – of course/obviously, etc

Peut-être – perhaps

S'il vous plait – please

Honnêtement – honestly

Vraiment – really/actually

Quel soulgement - what a relief

Sauf en tant que métaphore de – except as a metaphor of

Dites-moi – tell me

Vous plaisantez- "come on"

Ce n'est pas une chose très agreeable – that's not a very nice thing

Je voudrais quatre bols de soupe à l'oignon gratinée avec pain et du fromage, suvie par plateaux de fruits de mar – (basically what Antonio says) I would like four bowls of gratinée onion soup with bread and cheese, followed by plates of seafood

Je vous jure – I swear

Comme si nous ne savions pas – as if we didn't already know

Alors que c'est – then that is

Ce que vous voulez – whatever you want

C'est tout simplement – it's simply

Je t'aime – I love you

Y déjame – and leave me

Ou plus de pain – or more bread?

Et vous n'avez pas mangé beaucoup ce matin, aussi – and you didn't eat much this morning, either

C'est du très bon pain – it's very good bread

Vous me admirant – are you admiring me

Ne semblez pas tellement supris – don't be so surprised

Il est evident qui vous voulez parler avec moi – it's obvious that you want to talk with me

Demandez l'écart – ask away

Je m'excuse si mes réponses ne sont pas – I'm sorry if my response aren't

Si vous vivrez avec Gilbert – if you will live with Gilbert

Et combien plus quand - and how much more when

Je ne sais pas_, _je ne sais pas _tout simplement – _I don't know, I simply don't know

Entre vous et moi – between you and me

Un discours _très grave_ avec un idiot certain – a very serious talk with a certain idiot

_Merde, _ce un _salaud – _(roughly) Damn, what a bastard

Tu sait qui mon visage est _très _belle – you know that my face is _very _beautiful

Estoy seguro – I'm sure

Lo hizo – it worked

Yo sé – I know

Pero debemos – but we should

Croyez-moi – believe me

_C'est _parfait – it's perfect

_Dès_ le moment où je l'ai vu – from the moment I saw it

Ne pensez-vous pas – don't you think so

Pero, puuues, un pocito demasiado – but, weeeeeell, a little too

Ne savez-vous pas – Don't you know?

Vous allez _bien_/je vais bien – are you okay/I'm okay

Etes sûr/je suis sûr – are you sure/I'm sure

Vous _n'avez pas_ à vous soucier, vraiment – you don't have to worry, really

Adieu, adieu – jusqu'à ce qu'il soit jour – goodbye, goodbye, parting is such sweet sorrow

N'est pas amusant – you're no fun


	10. Gelato, Social Interaction

/generic apology about general lateness and lack of quality for chapter OTL

I really am sorry about the lateness and the crappiness (and shortness) of this chapter, though - I really didn't mean to take so long to update! There was just that...college thing that got in the way. But, ah well, since I'm on winter break now, I'll try to do better for the next chapter! - if not in time for the end of the world, at least in time for Christmas, I hope ^^;

Anyways, thanks again for reading, and please enjoy!

* * *

><p>It's ten thirty when Matthew wakes up, and it's quite a while longer when he gets over the shock of that.<p>

Ten thirty. Ten thirty, not six or two or four or some ungodly hour in the middle of the night because Gilbert had gotten bored of attempting to set their room on fire and was now going for the street – ten thirty. Ten thirty, the light a pale crescent on bed sheets, ten thirty and the sun for once up before he was – ten thirty.

On the bed opposite his, a white tuft of hair poked out from a mass of pillows and blankets.

Matthew stared.

And then laughed, just a little and not too loud, so not to wake up the sleeping form beside him.

Sleeping – well. He supposed even Gilbert had to sleep, once in a while.

He savored it for a moment, the warmth of the sun shining through the windows, the quiet of the morning, the unexpected sight of his roommate asleep.

And then, still smiling slightly, Matthew stood up and got ready for the day.

* * *

><p>"And <em>how <em>the fuck are we supposed to get twenty-fucking-five people to volunteer for _that?"_

"Well, geez I'm _soooorry," _Michelle said, putting her hands as she leaned back in her chair," I was just trying to help, okay? Sorry for being the only one here with any ideas."

"_Shitty_ ideas," Lovino replied, glaring as he picked up his cappuccino, "each one somehow fucking stupider than the last."

"Um, hey," Matthew said, gently squeezing himself between his glaring classmates, "can you guys, I mean, maybe if you just tried to understand, that is – look, for once, can you guys try to _not _kill each other? I mean," he added, voice faltering as he become aware of Michelle and Lovino's eyes on him, "um, I know this is a really stressful project and all, but you guys shouldn't, well, you know, take it out on each other. Um," he said, blinking under the continued gazes, I mean, it's just, it's no one's fault here, and anyways, we're just freshman, it really wasn't fair of her to–"

"_Fair?" _Lovino asked, practically spitting out the word out as he slammed his coffee down, splashing three-dollar-cappuccino all over the spindly table and the nearby patrons. "Damn fucking _right _you are, it isn't fair! We get here, what, one, one and a half fucking weeks ago? Fresh fucking out of high school, all nice and shiny and _eager, _so let's just take this fucking Intro to Psych class, sounds interesting enough, not too hard – and then first day of class, what do we get? A m-oth-er-fuck-ing _experiment_! For fucking _homework!_ In a _freshman class! _I mean, what the fucking _hell?"_

Pausing, he grabbed his cup, and, still glaring in the general directly, drank his coffee.

No one spoke. No one moved. Around them, the cafe was still, a frozen tableau of shock and disbelief and general _what-the-hell-just-happened-here _as Lovino finished his cappuccino.

It couldn't, of course, last.

* * *

><p>"So," Michelle said, delicately licking her gelato as they sat on the cafe steps, "any brilliant ideas coming now?"<p>

"Shut up," Lovino said, glaring as he bit the top off of his _bacio,_ but with his mouth full of ice cream, the retort could only half-hearted. "It's not my fault we got Professor fucking Hell to work with."

"Yeah, well," Michelle said, shrugging as she picked at the weeds growing through the cement cracks, "it _is _kind of your fault we got kicked out of Starbucks."

_Oh God, _Matthew groaned as Lovino opened his mouth to retort, _not again –_

"Oh, _do _quiet down_," _Michelle sighed, tossing a handful of grass at Lovino, "I was _joking, _you idiot. Besides," she added, smiling at Lovino over chocolate and cherries, "it's not like the coffee was all that great, anyways. The ice cream here was a _lot _better."

"Yeah, well," Lovino grumbled, the glare dull but still warily present in his eyes, "after trying to eat the fucking crap the dining halls pretend is food for three weeks, fried cat bowels on a stick would taste amazing. And old man Nicolo used to live in Palermo, so he knows his shit."

"Oh, come on," Michelle said, laughing as she threw another handful of grass at Lovino, "the food's _not _that bad."

"It's _American_."

"So?"

"So it's fat and cholesterol and salt _maybe _food between the preservatives, that's fucking what it is."

"Oh, _come on! _It's not _that –_"

"Actually," Matthew commented, taking a bite of his gelato, "he's kind of right."

"Oh, not you _too," _Michelle said, groaning as she turned towards Matthew, "I thought you were supposed to be on _my _side!"

"Yeah, well, you fucking said it yourself," Lovino said, shrugging as he plucked clover flowers out of his hair, "gelato's _a lot _better than shitty Starbucks coffee. Simple mercenary tactics, signorina. Nothing personal."

"_Ass_-hole."

"Fuck you, too."

Whereupon Michelle threw the rest of her cone at Lovino, whereupon Lovino ducked while managing to also throw his half-eaten gelato at Michelle – a truly impressive maneuver, one that would have been at least twice so if it had hit Michelle instead of Matthew – whereupon Michelle, with a cry of "_passavant li meillor!" _that was almost Francis-can in its melodrama, tossed something like looked suspiciously like a spider at Lovino, whereupon the whole thing, which had been causally strolling towards it for the past hour, went completely to hell.

* * *

><p>"So," Michelle said, when they had run out of ice cream and unwary insects for ammo (and also, incidentally, been kicked off the steps of Nicolo's Gelateria for being 'a general disturbance to business'), "any brilliant ideas now?"<p>

"And why the fuck should I have any?"

"Weeeell," Michelle said, hands in pockets as she shrugged, T-shirt sticky with melted ice cream and warm with sun, "you _were _the one who insisted we meet to talk about ideas for this project, so I _assumed _you might have some idea of what we're going to do–"

"Oh, wait," Lovino said, glaring at Michelle as they took a left towards campus, "I might just have gotten an idea – something on how long it takes people to start being complete fuckers to each other, maybe?"

Michelle stuck her tongue out at him.

"Asshole."

"Look who's fucking talking," Lovino said, glumly staring at the strand of ice-cream sticky hair wound around his finger. "Goddamn, I feel like I've been dipped in a syrup bottle – if this doesn't fucking come out, Bonnefoy –"

"Oh, save it, Vargas," Michelle said, not even turning to look at him, "a shower should do the trick. Aaah, a shower," she sighed, closing her eyes as she savored the word on her tongue, "now _that _sounds like the best idea I've heard all day."

Personally, Matthew agreed.

* * *

><p>They left him at the door to his room, Michelle all cheer as she waved goodbye while Lovino grumbled something at his feet that might have been a 'see you later' or a comment to his shoelaces, depending on which way you looked at it – but Matthew decided to be optimistic, and so he stood there, waving goodbye until Michelle and Lovino were only dots in the distance.<p>

Then, smiling as he adjusted his glasses, Matthew unlocked the door, and gently pushed forward.

He blinked slightly, eyes adjusting to the dim light.

Hm. That was odd – even when empty, their room was usually a cacophony of lights and screams from forgotten video games. Gilbert must have gone out this morning, then –

Only there he was, still in boxers as he sat with the blanket falling from bed onto ground, head cupped in one hand as he stared out the window.

At the creak of the door, Gilbert raised a hand, said, "hey, Mattie." He did not turn to look at Matthew.

"Gil," Matthew said slowly, then stopped. Stared for a few seconds – at the dimmed lights, the blank television screen, the unnaturally tidy floor. "Um. Did you just wake up?"

"No," Gilbert said, still staring outside the window. "A couple of hours ago."

"Oh." A pause, to reassess the situation. "Um, did you go to breakfast or anything?"

"No. Didn't feel like walking."

"Are you sure? I could get you something-"

"Not hungry."

Matthew bit his lip. Gilbert said nothing, continuing staring out the window, face turned away from Matthew.

"Hey Gil, are you, um, well, feeling okay? You're not sick or anything are –"

"No."

"Oh." Again, a pause; again, a reassessment before Matthew plowed forward. "Well, are you sure? I mean, you slept a lot more today than you usually do, and it's already two and you haven't had anything to eat all day, that doesn't sound very healthy, and, well, even if you're not hungry, you should at least have some lunch –"

"For God's _sake, _Mattie," Gilbert snapped, turning suddenly around to face him, "I told you – I am. Fucking. _Fine. _Christ's sake, you're almost as Tonio – always hovering about, looking for someone to mother and, goddamnit, it's not like I'm fucking five, okay? For fuck's sake," he muttered, rolling away from Matthew, "it's embarrassing – it's not like any of you give a damn, anyway."

And then he stopped talking, and then all was quiet for a long, long moment.

Matthew stood there for a moment, not moving, not talking, mouth slightly open and eyes unblinking behind his glasses –

And then ran out, the door slamming in the silence behind him.

* * *

><p>Notes:<p>

Bacio - a type of gelato which is a lot like Nutella in frozen form. Mm, Nutella...

Signorina - "miss," an Italian term of respect for a young woman

_passavant li meillor - "_let the best pass first," a French war-cry


	11. Gil Moods

Yaaay a somewhat punctual update for once! It's Christmas Eve here so here's an early present - merry Christmas and happy holidays guys, and thanks for staying with me so far! I love you all majorly and hope you have happy holidays and many presents :)

* * *

><p><em>Well<em>, Matthew thought, as he sat there, head between his knees as he reminded himself to breathe, _now didn't _this _feel familiar._

And it did – far, far too familiar.

This had, after all, been freshman homecoming and senior prom, waiting at an empty table as he watched everyone else dance; this had been fourth-grade drama and fifth grade choir, sitting with a plate full of food as he listened to everyone else laugh; this had been all of middle school and all of high school, sitting in graffitied bathroom stalls as he tried to calm himself down – always sitting, always waiting and watching and listening, hoping that someone would come by and talk to him, always _alone –_

And now this was college.

He thought about that. Thought about for a while, four years of loneliness and _left-behind_, four more years of the _aloneness _that had defined his life and that he had hoped to escape by coming to New York City, four more years (and when would it end?) –

Wiping his glasses, Matthew took a deep, shaky breath, and tried to concentrate on breathing.

Four more years. Four more years.

* * *

><p>Sometime later, when the shakiness had mostly resided and his eyes were no longer so puffy, Matthew stands up, straightens his clothes a little, and nods at himself in the mirror. Okay. A little redness still around his eyes and God knew his clothes were in an awful state from the earlier ice cream fight, but otherwise okay, otherwise presentable. Nothing too out of place, nothing that would seem wrong or troubling to a casual observer. That was good.<p>

He smiled at himself in the mirror, once, for practice – not much of a smile, but it was passable. That was good, too. All ready to go –

– to _where?_ It was far too early for dinner, and besides his room, he couldn't think of anywhere else to go – not the Starbucks he'd been kicked out of this morning, not the lounge with the dormmates he had never met, not the empty basement which had always given him an uncomfortable sense of déjà vu. He still hadn't gotten either Francis or Antonio's numbers, so he had no way of contacting them - and besides, he hardly wanted to show up unexpected. He had no books with him, no schoolwork or laptop or to do list to distract him, so he could hardly go somewhere to sit and study, either - had, really, nothing with him and nowhere to go.

Nowhere. Nowhere to go, nowhere to be, nowhere he was needed and nowhere anyone who would want him there anyways -

And now the tears were starting again, starting and shuddering through his carefully conducted composure, breaking all his practiced poise into pieces as he stood there, bent over the sink and trying desperately to not cry - couldn't, shouldn't, was such a stupid and weak and _selfish_ thing to do, and someone was going to notice (again, someone was going to hear (again), have to come and see and _worry_ –

And like that, the door opened.

Antonio stood there for one moment, saw the tears and half-hysterical horror on Matthew's face, and then rushed over and wrapped his arms around him.

Somewhere, amidst the embarrassment and relief and helplessness that constituted his volatile cocktail of emotions, Matthew managed to say, "thank you."

* * *

><p>"Now," Antonio said, when he had wiped the last of the tears away and ordered them both hot chocolates from the university cafe, "are you feeling better, Matthew?"<p>

Matthew nodded, looking away from Antonio as he stirred his drink. And although the worry did not fade from his eyes, Antonio let it go.

They drank their chocolate, then, in silence.

"Do you want anything else?" Antonio asked, after a while. "Some banana bread, tal vez? Muffin? A cookie or a –"

Matthew shook his head.

"Are you sure? People say chocolate can do wonders for the soul, you know. Y he oído that they make _wonderful _pastries here."

"I'm fine."

Antonio was silent for a moment, as if seeming to weigh the truth of the statement, and then he nodded, and leaned forward.

"Would you mind telling me what was bothering you earlier then, Matthew? It might help you feel better," he added, seeing the reluctance on Matthew's face.

Matthew bit his lip, looked at his feet for a brief moment. Then, very slowly, nodded.

Antonio waited.

"It was nothing, really," Matthew said, still avoiding Antonio's eyes as he stirred the last dregs of his drink, "I – I just came back today, and Gilbert was just acting a bit different from usual. That's all."

"Oh?" Antonio asked. "Are you sure?"

Matthew nodded, still did not look up.

And Antonio sighed at that, exhaled deep and long before looking up again.

"Well," Antonio said, smiling ruefully as he rubbed the back of his neck, "it isn't as though I haven't been expecting this, anyways. He gets like this sometimes, you know," he said, still smiling as he reached for his hot chocolate, "Gilbert, that is. Most of the time, he's – well, you were there, has visto what Gilbert is like normally. Y todo está bien, and he is, too – a little _too _much so, sometimes," Antonio said, smiling over his drink.

"But once in a while – every couple of months or weeks – pues, es como_... _he runs out of steam. Because he just stops. Stays inside a lot more, skips even the classes he likes, stops even going out with us most of the time – well, I think you see," Antonio said, sighing. "Francis y yo – we call them his Gil moods, joke about them sometimes. That's why I came here today – ten-thirty and no one was trying to knock down my door, so I thought, pues, either he's finally blown himself up or he's in a Gil mood."

Matthew said nothing.

"He doesn't mean any of it, though," Antonio said, gazing earnestly at Matthew, "he says a lot of awful things when he's like that, and he doesn't mean any of them. It's just – como puedo decirlo? – it just seems to happen, that's all. He says a lot of hurtful things, _s__í__, _but they hurt him, too."

Antonio sipped his hot chocolate, and in the silence, he suddenly looked the oldest Matthew had ever seen him.

And then Antonio put down his cup and smiled, and was all the good cheer and cheerfulness of the past days.

"Well, _esto es esto_, then," he said, standing up and briskly dusting off his hands, "_nuestro amigo _Gilbert is in an awful mood, is he? Well then, _como sus amigos_, that means we have to cheer him up, no?"

* * *

><p>"Hola, Gil!" Antonio said, throwing opening the door as he beamed into the darkness. "It's a beautiful day outside, mi amigo – the sun shining, all the birds singing in the trees, the sky so blue you wouldn't believe it –"<p>

"Antonio," Gilbert said, lifting his head briefly from beneath several layers of blanket, "what do you _want."_

"Want?" Antonio asked, tilting his head to the side. "Dios mio, Gilbert, I don't know if I want anything – well, a new car, tal vez, or maybe a better apartment or free tuition, yes, but I don't think I'd come to you for either of those – no, mi amigo," Antonio said, smile still stunning sunny as he sat at the end of Gilbert's bed, "I'm here – bien, _we're_ here, Matthew and I, that is – not because we _want_ anything – no, anything but! – but because we're your friends and it's _Sunday_! Sunday, the last day before the week begins again, Gil, y _tú _éstas aquí – here, in your room! On a Sunday afternoon _tan hermosa_! Come on, then," he said, tugging gently at the blankets, "_v__a__mos,_ Gilbert_ –_ open the curtains, go outside! There's no need to sit inside all day and –"

"Tonio, I am fucking _fine," _Gilbert said, but there was no anger behind it, words as monochrome and grey as the light filtering through the curtains. "We've been over this – give me a day, day or two, that's all. And I'll be fine."

Antonio hesitated.

"Are you sure?"he asked finally, quietly. "Only –"

"_Fine," _Gilbert repeated._ "_Good as fucking new."

Antonio looked at Gilbert for a moment, and then he nodded, slowly stood up.

"Well, come on then, Matthew," Antonio said, voice so enthusiastic it was almost strained, "vámonos! The day is still young, after all, y estoy seguro that Francis will–"

But Matthew was not listening.

His attention, instead, was on Gilbert – Gilbert, who was still lying there, still looking away, chin resting in hands and shoulders hunched in a way that felt far, far too familiar.

* * *

><p>As he waved goodbye to Antonio, Matthew suddenly realized how very <em>tired <em>he was. He'd had a long day already, and with biology homework still need to be done and English essays written, he still had a long one ahead. He needed a calculator; he needed a nap; he needed a nice, long hot shower and a clean change of clothes –

What he needed most of all right now, however, were eggs.

* * *

><p>It is much later when Matthew returns to his room – well, stumbles would be more accurate – and his clothes are dirtier than before, and the scent of cherries and alcohol hangs faintly on him, and he is so, so very tired, but he is still careful to knock before opening the door, call before entering.<p>

"Gil?" Matthew asks, peeking inside as he gently opens the door. The room is practically as he had left it – still silent, still eerily dark, the only light in the room coming from the muted television screen.

"Oh," Gilbert said, looking up from flipping channels to glance at Matthew, "hi.

Welcome back, I guess," he muttered, before returning his attention to the television.

Matthew bit his lip, slightly thrown off course, and then forced himself to square his shoulders, forge onwards. It was hardly as if he had expected anything different, after all.

"I, um, have something for you."

"Oh."

"Yeah. But well, the thing is, it's a surprise – so you have to, you know, close your eyes and stuff. And not open them until I say so."

"Fine with me," Gilbert said, eyes still fixed on the television.

"Okay, well then – close your eyes, I guess, and I'll count to three. Ready? Okay then, one – two – and three!" Matthew said, smiling nervously as he turned around, holding up a slightly squished chocolate cake.

"I, um, remember you talking a couple of days ago," he said, scuffing the carpet slightly as he talked, "about how you were looking for cake for your brother's birthday? But none of the nearby bakeries sold Kirschtorte, which was really disappointing, so you were trying to make your own. Only we never really, um, got to baking it. Which was kind of a letdown, because you kept on talking about how good it was and how I should try some. So I thought, well, it _did _sound like really good cake, so I might as well, you know, make some. For, well, both of us."

Gently, Matthew put the cake down.

"I, um, don't have any German ancestors to give me secret family recipes, but I tried to do what the books said – it said to use a lot of this German brandy, I think it was called kirschwasser? I'm not sure if I pronounced that right, but, well, I tried to get that, and Francis was out when I went over, but Antonio let me in to use his kitchen instead – and, well, I mean, I hope it's okay, that's all," he said, smiling nervously as he sat down.

For a long time, Gilbert said nothing. Only sat there, propped up on one elbow, mouth slightly open and hair a bird's nest of tangles –

"You shouldn't have," he said.

Matthew blinked.

"I–"

"_Shouldn't have, _yes," Gilbert repeated, flopping his head onto his pillow. "Opa used to make Kirschtorte – I know how fucking long that cake takes to make. And kirschwasser's specialty – you can't find it in some grocery store, would probably have to go out of Greenwich for that. That'd take an hour, hour and a half – four hours at least to make the cake. And for what? For a shitty, shitty excuse of a roommate, the same fucking asshole who dragged a freshman up and down Manhattan during his first week of college, and without fucking asking him _shit._ So like I said," he said, lifting his gaze to look briefly at Matthew, "you shouldn't have."

Slumping down again, Gilbert buried his head in his pillow, and turned away.

And then the room was silent.

"B-but that's not true," Matthew suddenly found himself saying, "that's not how it was _at all." _

_"_Oh? So I didn't basically fucking drag you around all week?"

"Well, maybe a little," Matthew admitted, "but it wasn't that bad – not really. I mean, it was, well, a little crazy and dangerous and illegal sometimes, but um, well, it was fun, too. A lot of fun. I enjoyed it, a lot. I really did. And well, I, didn't mind the dragging around bit," he added, "it was...well, it was the type of things friends do."

"Hmf," Gilbert muttered into his pillow. "You don't mean that."

"No," Matthew said, slowly as he realized the meaning of his words, "I did. It really was a lot of fun. It really was."

"Still doesn't make me any less of a shitty roommate, though," Gilbert said after a moment's pause.

"I didn't think you were that bad."

"Yeah, well, you're a saint, Mattie," Gilbert said, sighing as he sat up. "Need a medal for this type of shit – Nobel for putting up with shitty roommates or something."

"Not really," Matthew said, smiling as he slid the cake over. "A state fair ribbon would be nice," he said, slicing out a thick piece of frosting and chocolate, "but I don't know about that, either."

"Yeah, well," Gilbert said, shrugging as he accepted a piece, "this is Schwarzwälder 'd be crazy not to."

Matthew wasn't quite sure about that, but it was delicious cake nonetheless.

* * *

><p>Notes:<p>

Okay, you remember when I said traditionally, Black Forest Cake contains liquor? Well, the alcohol in particular is kirschwasser, which is basically a brandy made of cherries.

Translations:

tal vez = maybe

he oído = I've heard

has visto = you have seen

todo está bien = everything is fine

es como = it's like

como puedo decirlo = how do I phrase it? (lit: how can I saw it?)

esto es esto = that's that

_tú _éstas aquí = you're here

tan hermosa – so beautiful

estoy seguro – I'm sure


	12. Devil in the Details

Halfway through lunch, Antonio texts Matt.

Ignoring for the moment Lovino and his in-progress rage aneurysm, Matt reads the message, pauses a moment before responding.

_ How are things?_

Well. How were things, indeed –

"And what the _fuck, _I didn't even touch fucking anything, that absolute bastard–"

(_How are things?_ But what a loaded question that was! How would you answer that, how would you _know –)_

"You know," Michelle comments, only slightly rolling her eyes as she stirred her coffee, "_maybe _if you hadn't insulted his sexuality after he kicked you out, and _maybe _if you hadn't started swearing at him afterwards, then maybe – just _maybe – _he wouldn't have called the police –"

(– well?

Well.

The last past couple of days had been better, he supposed – better being a wholly relative term, he guessed. Gil had been going to classes, after all, talking and even going out to parties when Francis and Antonio came along – and even if he still spent the majority of his time inside, playing video games or rapid-flipping through channels, and even if he now seemed to always have a bottle of alcohol with him – well, that wasn't too bad, was it? For the most part, Gilbert acted like himself – well, mostly – just with a little less enthusiasm and a lot more alcohol – but that was still something, wasn't it? Wasn't it?)

"Oh, shut up," Lovino said, scowling as he reached for another piece of pizza, "the prick was an absolute bastard and you know it."

(And so _maybe _their room was quieter than usual now, and so _maybe _sometimes the silence was a little unnerving, and so _maybe _Gilbert wasn't exactly acting like himself lately, so much so that sometimes Matthew almost didn't recognize his roommate –

–but so what? Francis and Antonio had assured him that it happened before; Francis and Antonio had assured him that it was normal – and they were his friends, weren't they? Had known him longer, would know better? And if they said it was alright, shouldn't they be right? Shouldn't it?)

Matthew stares at his phone a second more –

And then texts back, and puts his phone away.

_ Fine._

* * *

><p>It's several days later, the last of the summer sun fading as the leaves turn red, and it is after psychology and they are once again sitting in the dining hall together, Lovino full steam on his rant-of-the-day as Michelle avoids smiling at his theatrics by making snide comments –<p>

And Matthew is sitting there, and Matthew is – once again – lost in thought.

(last night, Gilbert had staggered in, all loud gestures and a million ideas a minute – and though it had been three, and though Gilbert had talked his ear off until six even though Matthew had morning classes, and though Gilbert had smelt of enough alcohol for a bar – well, for a moment, it had almost better; for a moment, it had been almost normal –)

"–that wasn't even my fucking fault, so don't give me that shit about 'bring things on myself–'"

(–and then morning had come, and the smell of alcohol had stayed, an aftertaste sharp and barbed that lingered –)

"All I'm s_aaaa_ying," Michelle said, hands up defensively, "is that _maybe_ if you that tried not to rage-splode every time yelled at you, and that _maybe_ if you stopped thinking everyone who looked at you funny had it in for you –"

(– stayed, like Gilbert's good mood had not.

It had been silent when Matthew left, and already, there was another bottle.)

"–not my fault if every fucker I meet _does _have it in for me," Lovino grumbled, glowering faintly as he took a drink of his coffee.

"See, _that_ is exactlywhat I'm talking about," Michelle sighed, blowing the hair out of her face as she leaned forward, "you always think the worst of everyone, and they get all surprised when they always prove you right –"

Mind still somewhere between his dorm room and Lovino's current tirade, Matthew rested his head on his hand and let himself think.

(details – details were important, weren't they? And he knew he shouldn't worry, that Antonio and Francis had told him not to, but the details were there, clear and sharp as broken glass: the darkness, the alcohol, the long, inexplicable silences –)

"Hola, Matthew!"

– at which all of his ruminations fell apart, and at which Matthew himself nearly fell out of his chair.

It was, he supposed, one of those thing you never quite got used to.

"Michèle!" Francis said, appearing (again, seemingly out of nowhere) to plant a kiss on his sister's face. "Salut, mon cher! Et bonjour à vous aussi, Matthieu!" he said, smiling as he sat down next to Matthew. "Ça va? And you are?" he asked, not waiting for a reply as he turned to Lovino. "My name is Francis," he said, giving Lovino the widest, most charming, and most Francis smile as he leaned forward, "and you,mon petitpretty boy, who are _you_–"

– to which Lovino drew back at a speed that was almost instantaneous, eyes widening as he pushed away from the table.

"What the _fuck_–"

"Aw, come now, Francis," Antonio chided, walking away so he was behind Lovino, "don't do that – you're scaring the poor boy. Ignore him," he said, leaning over the chair to smile down at Lovino, "Francis can be stupid about these things.I'm guessing you already know Mattie and Michy," he said, pulling out a chair, "_that _idiot is Francis, and I'm Antonio. And you are?"

Lovino, glare still residual as he turned to face Antonio, muttered something that might have been "Lovino Vargas."

"Lovino, huh?" Antonio said. "Pues, it's nice to meet you."

Antonio's smile was wide and easy: sunny, inviting. Lovino glared at it as if it were cubic zirconia in a diamond store.

"Oh, stop that," Michelle scolded, but she was smiling as she mock-punched him, "there's literally nothing to be paranoid about, it's Tonio. Hey, Toni," she said, raising a hand, "et salut a toi aussi, frère. What are you guys doing here? Don't you have bars to wreck or girls to seduce or something?"

"Mon _dieu _Michelin," Francis said, eyes wide as he placed a hand over his heart, "me blesses– I am hurt, truly hurt. De penser, that my own sister would think such things about her older brother, believe such horrific lies –"

"They're not lies if they're true," Antonio pointed out. "How long did that waitress last – one, two weeks, mi amigo?"

"Et tu, Antonio?" Francis gasped, turning to Antonio in mock shock. "First Michelin, and now you as well – ah, it is cruel, far too cruel. Vous me blessez, vous me blessez beacoup."

"Excusez-moi," Michelle said, rolling her eyes but smiling as she rummaged through her purse. "Here," she said, taking out a band-aid and holding it up, "would this help?"

"Only if it's the one with flowers on it."

Sighing as she shook her head, Michelle nonetheless took another band-aid out of her purse.

"There," she said, leaning over to stick it on Francis's forehead, "that better?"

"You forget the kiss," Francis said, somehow managing to be charming while pouting. "_Maman _would always kiss it afterwards –"

"Not to cut in on your little nuclear family moment," Lovino said, cutting in nonetheless, "but what exactly the fuck is going on? So apparently this creep," he said, pointing to Francis, "is related to _you_," pointing to Michelle, "while also being friends with the corn syrup-drenched smiling mannequin over there," a glare at Antonio, "both of whom happen, _somehow,_ to also know my other lab partner," a glance at Matthew, "well enough to nearly give him a fucking heart attack, while breaking every fucking personal space and 'not fucking sexual harassment' rule in all of existence. And I don't know, maybe you just came here to play happy nuclear family for kicks or whatever, but the Oedipus vibes from all this pseudo-flirting are seriously fucking creeping me out – so unless you actually have something you fucking want to say, it would be really fucking considerate if you _said it_."

Glaring at the world, Lovino reached for his coffee, and downed it in one gulp.

"Lovino," Michelle said, voice mortified, "that was – you can't just say things like that to people – that's not just rude, that's _mean –"_

"Ah, come now, Michy, it's alright," Antonio said, putting an arm around Michelle, "it's not _that _bad. I'm sure he doesn't mean it. Besides, Lovi's right – it's not very polite to force company on other people. Bad habit," he said, smiling apologetically at Lovino, whose glare did not fade one iota, "sorry about that."

"Be better if you'd being sorry and just say what you're here for," Lovino said, the grumble present but noticeably muted as he crossed his arms.

"Ah, sí," Antonio said, brightening, "that's right – we still haven't told him, have we, Francis? Pues, anyways, Matthew," Antonio said, turning to him, "Francis and I – well, we have this weekend free, and it's been a while since we all got together, plus we're pretty sure you're sick of dining hall food by now – y pues, we were thinking about having a group dinner this weekend! You two can come too, por supuesto," he added, glancing at Michelle and Lovino.

"If Francis will be cooking, then you know I'll be there," Michelle said, still glaring at Lovino as she crossed her legs. "Though, that sounds a little tame for you guys – no parties, no girls? No tabletop dancing or high speed chases from the police? No bars to wreck? – and _where_ is Gilbert, he's usually the one behind the crazy plans. Suspicious, sus-_piii-_cious," she said, stroking her chin, "– so what gives. C'mon, Tonio, you can trust meee – so dish _dish,_ what's _reeeeally_ going on here? What's the real plan?"

Folding her hands under her chin, Michelle leaned forward and smiled.

Antonio and Francis glanced at each other – a short, barely-there thing that said a world of hesitation.

"Bien, en fait, Michelin," Francis said, scratching the back of his head as he pointedly avoided looking at his sister, "that _is _what we actually had planned. Et Gilbert, bien..."

"The idea was kind of, well, thought up of because of him," Antonio said, smile still wide, still bright as ever, "something to cheer him up a little. One of those weeks," he said, smile bright and reaching everywhere but his eyes.

"Oh," Michelle said, softly. And for a long time, no one said anything at all.

"Pues, bien!" Antonio said, clapping his hands as he stood up. "Saturday it is, then – eight, eight-thirty? Ah, it doesn't matter – just sometime after seven, bien? ¡Guay! We'll see you then, then!"

"Adieu, Michelin," Francis said, leaning down to kiss Michelle on the forehead, "et au revoir à vous, aussi," he said, turning to smile at Matthew and Lovino. "My crème brûlées are _famous, _so I do expect to see you there – both of you, bien?"

And flashing them one last, toothpaste commercial-worthy smile, he left.

Leaving Michelle alone and free to start on Lovino.

"–don't know what you were thinking, but he's my brother, and you can't just _say _that–"

"–yeah, well, there's a fucking such thing as private space, and it's not my fault I don't like being fucking sexually harassed –"

But Matthew was only half-listening to their argument. Once again, his mind was distant, wandering on other things far, far away.

(details: alcohol and broken glasses, silences and dark windows – and beyond that, in the gaps between the pixels, the nearly-discarded scraps of moments, the catch in a step, the edge of hardness in the laughter –

Details: the devil was in them, but so was the truth. Details were good, details were necessary, details were _important _–)

_ (and what did the details say?)_

* * *

><p>Notes:<p>

I know there was some people said stuff about the tenses being weird, but I think this shouldn't be as bad? The first part's in present tense and the second's in past, but there's not that much difference within scenes - I don't know, it just felt right to me ^^ But if it bothers people, I am totes amendable to changes ^^

Also, this website messes up my formatting like nothing else ._.

Translations:

Salut, mon cher! Et bonjour à vous aussi – Hello, my dear! And hello to you too

De penser – to think

me blesses, vous me blessez– you wound me

vous me blessez beacoup – (roughly) you wound me deeply

Por supuesto – of course

Bien, en fait – well, actually

Guay – fantastic/great (in Spain)

Et au revoir à vous, aussi – and goodbye to you, too


	13. Superordinate Goals

"Matthieu!" Francis says, beaming as he pulls Matthew into a hug. "Entrez, entrez, mon cher!" he says, taking the tourtière from Matthew's hands and beckoning him inside. "_Do _come in!"

And dropping a quiet "merci," Matthew does, taking off his shoes before he enters.

"Hey, Mattie!" Michelle says, waving to him from her place curled up on the couch. "What's up?" she says, shifting to make room for him.

"Not much," Matthew says, smiling slightly and taking a seat next to her. "You?"

"Eh, not much," Michelle says, waving a hand, "just school stuff, nothing interesting. _Thank _God we had the fire alarm go off the other day, I thought I was going to fall asleep –"

"Oh, come on," Francis says, coming over with two wineglasses and a bottle of red wine, "n'est pas si mal, Michelin! Or," he adds, a smile tugging at his lips as he pours out two glasses of Merlot, "du moins, not when I was in her class –"

"For all of the three weeks you _were_ in it, frère," Michelle says, rolling her eyes as she takes a glass. "And even _that _was because you kept on trying to hit on her – honnêtement, you'd think you were trying to get kicked out –"

"Bien, et comment sais-tu that I wasn't? It _was _a boring class. Quelque chose d'autre, Matthieu?" Francis asks, handing him a glass, "–seulement it might be a while before Antonio comes over, et il serait terrible manners to make a guest go hungry, non?"

"Non, merci," Matthew says, smiling politely as he took an experimental sip, "I'm fine, thanks." The wine was a little stronger than he had expected, alcohol closer to the top and less masked by sugar, but it was good wine, nonetheless, and several weeks with Gilbert as his roommate had considerably dulled Matthew's sensitivity to alcohol. He had that to thank him for, he supposed – and as potentially dangerous such a skill could be, Matthew wasn't sure Gilbert could say the same. He hadn't been much of a roommate lately, Matthew thought, resting his chin on a hand as he absentmindedly swirled the wine. These past few weeks – well, a good roommate would have – a good _friend _would have –

And then the doorbell rings, and with a "ben, enfin!," Francis rises to answer it, Michelle ("ooh, they're finally here!") following behind –

And Matthew, knowing who will be there, remains on the couch, staring at his glass.

* * *

><p>Lovino is, naturally, irate.<p>

Sulking, hands shoved into pockets, and muttering Italian obscenities under his breath as he enters, he shakes Antonio off as he enters, keeping a wary eye on Francis all the time.

"Hey," he says, slumping down next to Matthew, barely-contained hostility practically radiating off every line of his posture.

"Hola, Matthew!" Antonio says, seemingly oblivious to the black aura emanating off Lovino as he cheerfully sat down next to him. "Ah, qué bueno! looks like everyone's here, and on time for once, too! Well," he says, beaming at them all – Gilbert in an opposite corner staring listlessly at the wall, Matthew nervously fidgeting with his sleeves, Lovino glaring at world as if ready to murder someone –"that's a nice change, isn't it? Qué fantástico, no? Don't you think so, Lovi?" he asks, turning to Lovino.

_"Don't fucking call me that."_

Antonio blinks, tilting his head to one side as if sensing for the first time Lovino's air of 'don't look at me don't talk to me touch-me-and-you-fucking-die.'

For a moment, the tension stretched out taut in the air –

"Aaah, por qué no?" Antonio asks, the smile coming into his voice as easily as it had left. "Estamos amigos, no? Can't friends be a little friendly to each other?"

"I never said we were –"

"Ah, something more, alors?" Francis interrupts, seemingly unable to resist the chance for to sneak in an innuendo. "Ah, how quickly they do grow up! I remember you were only an awkward little freshman, Antonio –well, I was too, seulement without the awkwardness – bien, bien, I suppose congratulations are in order –"

"What – I –did you – what the actual _fuck –_"

"Oh my _God," _Michelle groans, placing a hand over her face, " I swear this happens every _time_ – c'mon Mattie," she says, standing up and taking a hold of Matthew by the hand, "let's leave them to it – _some_one has to remember we're supposed to be having a dinner here – Gil?" she asks, stopping in front of him. "Do you want to come with us? I mean, I know I know I'm not as good as frère, but since it seems like _they_'ll," pointing in the general direction of Francis, Antonio, and Lovino, "be at it for a while –I mean, well, you _know –_ if you'd want to, that is."

"Hm?" Gilbert says, looking up. "Oh, hey Chelly, roomie – and nah, that's okay."

"Are you sure? Only –"

"Yeah," Gilbert says, waving a hand, "it'll be fine. 'Sides," he said, giving her a brief smile, "someone has to make sure that no one kills each other, right? And stop looking all down and shit, roomie – I'm fine, alright? I'll be fine. Okay?"

"Well," Michelle says, hesitating for another moment, "I mean, well, alright then. Well, um, good luck, then?"

"Yeah," Gilbert says, but he is no longer paying attention and his eyes are already far, far away.

* * *

><p>In the end, they aren't alone for that long – Lovino, for all his bluster and scowling, calms down fairly quickly in response to Antonio's promises of crème brûlée – apparently, the promise of good food was enough to quell even Lovino's spitfire temper.<p>

Not that it can do completely, of course – still not completely mollified, Lovino sits on the couch with his arms crossed, breaking only from glowering at Antonio to curse at the referee or the football players on the television before them.

Matthew, for his part, follows the game unfolding before him with only faint interest – with Alfred star quarterback and a football fanatic of the American kind, it had always been NFL and not FIFA that had dominated their flatscreen at home. Not that Matthew had particularly minded – he'd never been that into sports, and he preferred hockey, anyways.

It was a completely different story with the others.

"Oh, are you _kidding_ me?" Michelle exclaims, suddenly leaning forward as the whistle blows. "Mantovani practically tackledhim – there was no _way _that wasn't a red card –"

"Yeah, well, served them right, then," Lovino grumbles, reaching across Gilbert for one of the _polvorones_ Antonio had brought, "bastards should have thought twice before selling Kaká over –"

"Ah, dios mio, are you still upset over that, Lovi? That was three years ago –"

"– _don't fucking call me that_, and that makes no fucking difference, doesn't change that it was a dick move –"

Matthew listens to them for a few moments more, then – when the argument doesn't seem on the verge of ending anytime soon – slowly stands up, and opens the door to the kitchen.

Inside, the kitchen is a stream of different scents and cultures: simmering paella and cooling pasta alla norma, bubbling French onion soup and half-assembled chatini.

Having long shooed everyone away (_Mon Dieu, is _that_ any way to mince?)_, Francis stands in the midst of it all, piping whipped cream into the last of the profiteroles.

Matthew stands there for a while, politely waiting for Francis to notice him. After several moments have passed and Francis has moved from cream puffs to macarons, he gives up, calls out, "Francis?" as unobtrusively as he can.

"Oui?" Francis says, looking up. "Oh, salut, Matthieu – something the matter, mon cher? Do you need anything?"

"Non," Matthew said, smiling briefly, "tout va bien – I was only wondering if you might want some help."

"Oh?" Francis asks, tilting his head slightly, hands covered with almond flour. "Bien, that's very kind of you, but I don't think –"

"I'd like to, though."

Francis blinks, but he recovers quickly.

"Eh bien," he says, smiling graciously, "if you want to, that would be wonderful, mon cher."

Matthew nods, gives a quick smile in gratitude, and enters.

For a few moments, they work in relative silence, Francis delicately whipping egg whites and almond flour into a paste while Matthew watches over the already cooking dishes, occasionally stirring or readjusting heat settings.

"Alors, comment sont les classes?" Francis asks, in between piping macaron batter. "Not too badly, j'espère?"

"They're well," Matthew replies, turning from stirring the soup. "Composition is pretty easy, and math and bio aren't too bad."

"Et psychology? Michelin has been telling me things about _that _class – j'espère que Hellen isn't treating you too poorly? She was rather strict, I remember – _très _belle, of course, but strict, aussi –"

"Psychology? No, it isn't too bad – a lot of lectures, but they aren't too hard. I think the only hard thing we have is the project we have to do–"

"Ah, I remember that," Francis says, grimacing slightly. "Partnership and "the ability to work together," non? Un peu ridicule, I always thought, although my partners were indeed quite charming – though of them seemed to have the same opinion of me...mais oui, I do remember struggling on that project. Ben, before I dropped out, that is."

Matthew distinctly remembers Michelle describing it more as being kicked out than dropping out, but he nods anyway.

"If you're looking for project ideas, though," Francis says, placing his pastry bag down, "I think one of the ideas we had – bien, the one I brought up, at least – was a dating game."

"A dating game?"

"Alors," Francis corrects, "not exactly – more like something to study human interaction. It was based off something we learned in class – the Robbers Cave Experiment, I think it was? Bien, I think you might have already covered it, but it was about prejudice, and how common goals reduced it. What we would done – alors, what _I_ proposed we do – is see how far the theory could go – whether or not, par exemple, not just whether two enemies could become friends, but rather more than friends, mm?"

"Malheuresement," Francis says, sighing, "no one else seemed to think it was a good idea – et parce que I had to sadly leave in the middle of our project, my idea was, dirons-nous, sadly ignored. Bien que," he adds, perking up, "I do think it would be a marvelous idea for your group – et d'autant plus que you have the perfect candidates at hand, non? That Lovino boy seems to have some special kind of hate for Antonio – et bien que I doubt our dear Antonio feels similarly, it _could _still work –"

"Not if Lovino knows about it."

"True," Francis concedes, "true – experimental bias, non? Although participation might be the larger problem – bien, it was only an idea anyways. Nothing stopping us from trying on our own time, non?"

"Potential death aside?"

"Potential death aside, bien entendu."

"I'm not quite sure I'm willing to risk that," Matthew replies, smiling slightly, "but it's not a bad idea. I'll think about it."

"Do that, alors," Francis says, smiling back, "do that."

"I will."

And for a while more, they work in silence.

Outside, someone scores a goal, and a cheer rises from the couch. Matthew glances at the living room, and sees Lovino, Michelle, and Antonio standing up, doing some sort of victory dance – and Gilbert, a quiet smile playing on his lips, but still sitting, only watching.

Matthew bites his lip.

He darts a glance at Francis, quietly humming a Carmen suite as he slices tomatoes, and decides to ask.

"Francis?"

"Oui, Matthieu?"

"I, um – well, it's about Gilbert. I mean," Matthew continues, "you've been his friend for longer than I have, so I thought you would know – but um, well, these past few days, I've just been noticing he's been acting really different. And I know you said it was normal," he adds hurriedly, "but I just thought, well – if there was something else, that is. Something behind it all or something wrong."

For a moment, there is silence. For a moment, Francis stands there – green onion and tomato flecking his hands, hasty ponytail slowly coming undone in the humid air, an unusually somber expression on his face.

And then Francis licks his lips, and for a moment, Matthew is afraid of what he will say.

"Bien," Francis says, "we've thought about that, of course. Antonio and I used to be like you, used to wonder about if something was wrong, try to get Gil to talk about it. Mais, ben, Gilbert was Gilbert – every time we tried to ask, he would refuse to answer. Say 'I'm fine,' and if we didn't believe him, stop talking. Avoid us for days. Et alors, a few days later, come back, perfectly fine again. And if we tried to bring it up again, ce serait comme confronting a bride on her wedding day – impossible, simplement impossible. Et, eh bien," he says, shrugging with a smile, "after a while, we stopped. What was the use? – it wouldn't get him to say anything, and he would be alright in a few days, anyway."

He pauses for a moment, and in the pause, the silence is suddenly stifling.

"I know how it sounds," Francis continues, his voice infinitely gentle, "mais c'est what is best. Gilbert doesn't want to talk about whatever is bothering him – bien, we can't force him to. But we can be his friends, non? We can do that."

"But," Matthew says, "what if –"

"What if _what_? What if Gilbert is more than fun and crazy ideas, hmm? People are rarely everything they show you, mon cher. That doesn't mean there's anything wrong with them – it just means that they're people."

Francis pauses, brushes a stray hair from his face, then picks up stalk of green onion, begins slicing it into fine pieces.

"Bien que," he adds, voice lightening as he continues slicing, "it's possible that you won't need to worry about Gilbert for a while – I think he's been cheering up lately."

Sprinkling the green onion onto the chatini, Francis tosses the tuna and spices together, and turns to Matthew.

"That's all, je crois," he says, smiling as he opens the kitchen door. "Alors, allons-nous?"

* * *

><p>Apologies for the hurried quality of this chapter - one day, I will have lots of time and will edit things meticulously and make them beautiful and wonderful, I promise!<p>

Today is not that day.

Anyways, notes!

Sports! First off, I am not a sports person AT ALL, so I probably did something terribly wrong in talking about football/soccer without realizing it - so please, do correct me!

But anyways, the game is supposed to be between two Italian teams, Milan and Palermo, with Mantovani a player for Palermo football league. Kaká currently plays for Madrid, but he used to play for Milan until the team transferred him over (and from what I hear he's not too happy about it? Although a re-transfer may be in order? Idk man, not a sports person)

Psychology! The Robbers Cave Experiment was a study where several boys with similar backgrounds were taken to camp, split into teams, and told to compete for resources. This created a bunch of conflict, but then the researchers created a problem that the teams had to cooperate to overcome, and voila! Camaraderie.

Food! From Spain, there's paella (a rice dish with seafood and saffron) and polvorones (a crumbly, shortbread-esque cookie). Pasta alla norma is a Sicilian dish with tomatoes and eggplant, tourtière is a Canadian meat pie, chatini is a Seychellen (Seychellian?) appetizer-esque dish made with fish and various vegetables, profiteroles are what the non-US world calls cream puffs, and macarons are these beautiful airy French cookies I would really love to make! Except, well, no, those things are hard to make.

Translations: (made possible with the exploitation of college friends)

entrez – enter

n'est pas si mal - it's not that bad

au moins - at least

bien, et comment sais-tu- well, and how do you know

quelque chose d'autre? - something else?

seulement - only

et ca serait - and it would be

bien, enfin - well, finally

eh bien/ben/alors - filler words

comment sont les classes - how are classes?

j'espère - I hope

un peu ridicule - a bit ridiculous

malheuresement - unfortunately

parce que - because

dirons-nous - shall we say

bien que - although

d'autant plus que - all the more since/especially since

bien entendu - of course

ce serait comme - it would be like

je crois – I believe


	14. Good Weather

"So what it seems to me," Professor Hellen says when Matthew finishes, "that what you propose to do is study interpersonal relations? In particular, how they are effected by prolonged interaction?"

Matthew nods, keeps his eyes on the floor.

"Hm," Hellen says, resting her chin on one hand as she tapped her fingers thoughtfully against her cheek, "hm."

In his seat, Matthew fidgets a little, furtively looks up.

"Do you know," she says finally, looking thoughtfully at Matthew, "that sounds quite a lot like an idea proposed by another student last year?"

Matthew bites his lip.

"Um, well –"

"Which doesn't," Hellen adds, "necessarily mean it shouldn't be done – it's hardly as if scientific procedure is against examining phenomena multiple times, and the student who suggested it never got a chance to implement the experiment, anyway – pity," she sighs, "he had _such _potential. One of my most troublesome students, of course – but nonetheless, one of the more interesting ones, too. How I would have loved to get inside _his _head..."

She falls silent, staring out the window, and then suddenly seems to snap out of her reverie.

"Of course," she says, "there would be quite a few ethical challenges to take into consideration, but the idea certainly has potential. With the right context, it could be an interesting study. I look forward to it."

And she smiles at him – a brief, professional smile that is as much a dismissal as anything, but a smile nonetheless.

* * *

><p>Matthew stumbles out of the psychology building slightly dazed, blinks slightly in a sun that seems brighter than he had remembered it.<p>

It's a beautiful day, the fall leaves bright blazes of color against the yellowing grass. For a moment, Matthew stands there, drinking in the sunlight and crisp fall air.

And then the moment passes, and Matthew continues back to his dorm.

* * *

><p>"Gil?" he calls when he gets back, slowly opening the door. "Are you –"<p>

"Mattie! Oh my God, you're finally back – I woke like five hours ago, and you were gone so I tried to call Antonio or Francis, 'cept the assholes wouldn't fucking answer, so I've been basically waiting for _fucking _forever –"

From beneath a mass of white hair and excitability, Matthew slowly extracts himself, sits up, and smiles at his roommate.

"Hi, Gil."

* * *

><p>"– and then Coach said that I was a natural, best QB he'd seen in years, and it was <em>great<em> because no one in my dorm thought I could do it, even Coach was kind of skeptical at first –"

"That's great, dear," Matthew's mom says, smiling, "but how about you close your mouth when you chew?"

Alfred pauses, takes a moment to swallow his food, and then – reaching for a drumstick – continues.

"But yeah, and then we got to our first game, and everyone was really nervous because they'd let a frosh onto the team – you should have _seen _the other team's faces –"

On the other side, Matthew sits, quietly listens. Chews, mouth closed, occasionally reaches over for another scoop of cranberries or slice of dark meat. Smiles – politely, pleasantly, and without taking in a single word Alfred says.

"'Atta boy, Alfie!" his dad says, grinning as he ruffles Alfred's hair. "That's my boy, proving everyone who doubted you wrong – always knew you had in it you, kid, always did."

He beams, smile as bright as the sun, and then – almost guiltily – seems to notice Matthew, sitting quietly and eating his salad.

"And how was school for you, Mattie?"

Matthew chews, takes a moment to swallow, and then replies, "school was fine."

His parents exchange a look.

"Classes going okay?" his mother asks, smile slightly strained as she looks at him. "Teachers okay? You're getting along alright with your classmates, right? No one's mean to you or anything, are they?"

"And if they are," Alfred chimes in, "just tell me! I'll come on over and take care of them!"

"You go to college two hundred miles away from New York," Matthew points out, carefully spearing a piece of asparagus.

"So? I could fly over!"

Matthew rolls his eyes, but decides to reach for another sweet potato instead of arguing.

"Honestly though, Mattie," his mother says, placing a hand on his arm as she gazed at him with worried eyes, "are you sure everything is –"

"Mom," Matthew says, gently taking her hand away, "it's fine."

"Are you sure?"

Matthew thinks about that – thinks about Francis and Antonio and lacing frat party brownies at twelve in the morning while telenovelas blared in the background; thinks about Michelle and Lovino and coercing angry Italians into being test subjects; thinks about classes, Professor Tino's kind smile and Professor Hellen volunteering her own son for their psych experiment ("Herakles's almost twenty-one – it's about time he learned to get along with Sadik") – thinks about all that, the last twelve weeks at New York University.

"Yeah," he says, smiling, "everything's fine."

For a second, his mother looks like she's going to protest – disagree, argue, refuse to believe him – and then she stops, pulls back.

"Alright," she says, though there is still worry in her eyes as she bites her lip – an unconscious gesture, and one she had passed down to Matthew. "I just – well, if anything _is_ wrong, if anything ever _goes _wrong – well, call me, alright? Both of you," she adds, turning to Alfred. "If you ever need anything –"

"Hey, thanks, but you don't need to worry, Mom," Alfred says, flashing her the grin that had won over a hundred hearts in high school. "Mattie and I can take of ourselves, right? Or if he can't, I can do it for for both of us!"

"Al, you do remember I'm technically older than you, right?"

"Five hours doesn't count," Alfred says, waving them away with a fork full of turkey. "Besides, it's not like anything's wrong at Penn – well, okay, except my roommate, but Kirkland's always been a motherf–"

"–_language_ –"

" –terrible person," Alfred corrects, pausing to swallow before continuing. "But yeah, he's pretty terrible – always sitting around all with his fancy books and drinking his stupid tea and correcting the way I say words with his stupid British accent – and it's not like I ever did anything to _him, _anyways – roommate from hell, I swear."

"Yeah well, we all get those types, don't we?" his father says, leaning back as he pats Alfred on the shoulder. "Just have to suffer through these kind of things, kiddo – 'fraid that's the way life works sometimes. How 'bout you, Mattie?" he asks, turning again to Matthew. "How's your roommate stacking up so far?"

Matthew chews, takes a moment to think about that.

He thinks of Gilbert – Gilbert and Halloween, dressing up as Adventure Time characters and going around New York City asking for candy from bemused professors whose addresses they had tracked down the day before – Gilbert, and going over to Founder's Hall to throw a birthday party for Ludwig, Gilbert's little brother who had reacted to his surprise party with all the humor and confusion of a rock at a parade – Gilbert and late-nights, Matthew wrestling with math homework while Gil sprawls out over the coach, rambling about military history or chemistry projects or co-players on Xbox live ("bitches, Mattie, all of them absolutely _bitches_"), occasionally pausing to give Matthew a derivative or an answer to a particularly difficult problems – thinks about that, the last twelve weeks of math and madness and mayhem.

"He," Matthew says, "is pretty great."

* * *

><p>Pumpkin pie comes afterwards, followed by football – Notre Dame versus USC, and for a few hours, everyone migrates to the living room to watch – and then all too soon, Thanksgiving is over –<p>

"Wait," Matthew's mother says, and Alfred lets out a groan, "I think we're forgetting something, aren't we?"

"But Mo-_oo-_om, it's twelve –"

"No buts," she says. "It's tradition, remember?"

Alfred rolls his eyes, but in a bored voice, he begins nonetheless.

"This year, I'm thankful for –"

They go around in a circle, each telling: Alfred, Mom, Dad, and finally Matthew.

Matthew thinks about it for a moment – thinks about NYU, the past months of sunshine and sweets and studying. About Gilbert, that dark break of days in the sunshine. About Gilbert, and the slight frowns Matthew had begun to notice in the days before he left.

He wasn't sure whether Francis was right or not, whether it was not his place or not to wonder if anything was wrong – all he knew, right then, was that he hoped the sunshine would last.

"Good weather," Matthew says, and smiles at his parents' puzzlement.

* * *

><p>Notes: Updating on the first day of spring break, yeeeah!<p>

This is a light chapter, but I guess all you would need to know is that Notre-Dame and USC apparently have a football rivalry? Football as in the American sense here (for non-Americans, this takes place during Thanksgiving). Also Alfred goes to Penn State, which is part of the Big Ten Football Conference, which is apparently a Big Deal (doesn't actually watch football).

Also, Halloween and the birthday party didn't have a lot of plot purpose, so they may be outtakes later ^^;

Anyways, thanks again for staying with me so far, and I hope your days are full of pastries and sunshine!


	15. Packed (for later)

Homemade chocolate chip cookies and frozen pecan pies, chocolate bars and chocolate candies and roughly a week's worth of turkey sandwiches – before leaving, his mother packs Matthew a suitcase full of food ("_you need to eat more_," she says when he protests, _"I don't trust the food there and you're going to be walking everywhere and studying and_ working so hard–"), and it rattles on the taxi back to NYU, fifty pounds of sweets and plastic souvenirs, but Matthew doesn't mind. The suitcase might have been a nuisance to carry, but the plastic trinkets at the airplane gift shop had been the exact kind of cringingly kitsch Matthew knew Antonio would love, and his mother's pecan pie is so good that Matthew is sure Francis will want a recipe, and if they want to continue their experiment without any homicides, they'll need more bribes and Matthew knows for a fact that Lovino's favorite cookies are chocolate chip –

And in the other suitcase, stuffed between clothes and pies and checked-in because it was liquid, there is a gallon bottle of maple syrup.

* * *

><p>"Gil!" Matthew calls as he opens the door. "I'm ba –"<p>

Matthew stops, suitcase swinging forward in the silence.

Behind him, the door swings shut.

Oh. Well, that was unexpected. Not necessarily in a bad way, of course, but certainly not in a good way, either, just...unexpected.

Well. It didn't mean anything, of course – his roommate was popular, had lots of friends, was probably right now at some party or another. Of course, of course. That hurt, just a little, but it was a familiar ache: twelve weeks of living with the definition of impulsive had accustomed Matthew to sudden absences. And besides, he didn't mind those, not so much – because, even if it was lonely being left behind, after twelve weeks of living with him, Matthew knew that Gilbert always came back.

It was the other option that Matthew was more worried about.

(empty rooms and half-unpacked bags, video games strewn carelessly about and Gilbird's cage uncleaned, and an eerie silence over all the dust – because for all his unpredictability and fickleness, Gilbert was neat, liked things in their place, had went on a cleaning spree the day after he'd gotten better–)

But. It didn't mean anything.

Yeah, Matthew tells himself as he changes the water in Gilbird's cage, it probably didn't mean anything.

* * *

><p>Except, as he should have known by now, it did.<p>

Because sometime in the middle of the night, his phone rings, and – groggy, half-blind and half-asleep as he fumbles for his glasses in the dark – he answers, manages to mumble out, "hello?"

"Matthieu," Francis says, and instantly Matthew is awake, because there is no lightness in Francis's tone, no cheer or 'bonjour,' only a stark terseness that makes Matthew's stomach tense in Pavlovian response, "can you come over?"

"Of course," Matthew says, because even though it's the dead of night and he has class tomorrow, he already knows that he is needed, that this is important, that this is about –

"Merci," Francis sighs, and then hangs up.

Leaving Matthew alone, and leaving Matthew to get ready.

* * *

><p>"So he's been here for a while?"<p>

"Ah, bien, funny story, actually," Antonio says, coming out of the kitchen with a bottle of wine, "we had only just got here, y pues, he was here. Ahí, in Francis's apartment. Just, bien, there. Waiting."

"Non," Francis says, shaking his head as he absent-mindedly swirls his wine, "ce n'était pas ça – not waiting. Du moins, not for us."

He breaks off then, takes a long, deep drink, and says nothing for a while.

"Bien entendu, it was hardly as this were something new," Francis continues after a while. "It had happened, autrefois – middle of night, je voudrais entrer, walk in to see Gil there –je _savais _que c'était a bad idea to give him the spare key, but he kept on picking the locks otherwise, scratching the door terribly, and the landlord was getting suspicious, thought I was running a cartel or something –"

"Ah, so that was what all the fuss was about?" Antonio asks, sitting down next to Francis. "I thought it was because he kept scratching the door, o tal vez the time you two found a karaoke machine and wouldn't stop until someone called the police –"

"I remember _you_ didn't try to stop us, mon ami."

"Ah, well," Antonio says, shrugging, "it _was _a good song, no?"

"Hypocrite," Francis says, smiling as he turns away – but the smile is faint , and it does not reach his eyes.

"Ah, pues, that's enough of that," Antonio chides, putting an arm around Francis's shoulder, "cheer up, bien? It's like what you said – it's happened before, we've dealt with it before, and didn't it always get better? Era bien, será bien – so don't do that, de acuerdo? You're worrying Matthew."

"Je sais, je sais," Francis sighs, "mais, parfois – mais, you're right. I need sleep – I'm being silly. Pardon, Matthieu – I shouldn't have called you."

"C'est bien," Matthew says, giving Francis a smile, "I would have worried if you hadn't. Thank you for telling me."

And he smiles – smiles, but the smile is hollow, and already (at the back of his throat, in the pit of his stomach), the emptiness is rising.

(but he can't do that, can't let it take over and let himself come apart, not here and especially not _now – _

He can't. If nothing else, for Gil's sake – Gil, his roommate and the first friend he had made here; Gil, who was all sun and energy, but then so suddenly silence and darkness; Gil, who had come over to Francis's apartment with a BAC several times the legal limit, whom Francis had found ranting and raving, eyes bloodshot and an empty bottle of vodka in his hands –

Gil, his best friend. Gil, his first real friend in a long, long time.)

So he smiles, and so he stays calm, and – with Francis and Antonio's help – takes his roommate (unconscious, so dead drunk he had almost been dead) home.

* * *

><p>"Maaattie!" Michelle says, jumping and enveloping him in a rib-bracing hug. "Oh my God, it's so good to see you! How are you, how was your break?"<p>

"G-oof-ood," Matthew manages to squeeze out (impressively, he thinks, considering the probable state of his ribs). "Hi, Lovino."

"Hi," Lovino says, waving shortly – still a bit sore, Matthew suspected, about being selected as a test subject (or, at the very least, doing a very good imitation of someone who was).

"Oh, stop that, you," Michelle says, batting at Lovino as she let go of Matthew, "Toni's wonderful, I don't know why you're complaining – I'd take over your job if I could, except that would kind of defeat the whole purpose of the experiment. Look, Mattie even brought you cookies."

"I thought I told you to stop trying to bribe me," Lovino says, rolling his eyes as he stands up, "it's getting kind of fucking pathetic, really. These aren't oatmeal raisin again, are they?"

"Chocolate chip," Matthew says, smiling as he adjusted his glasses. "My mom's recipe."

"Good," Lovino says, taking the bag from Michelle, "I fucking _hate _oatmeal raisin. Where is the asshole, anyway?" he asks, cramming a cookie into his mouth.

"He'll be here in five minutes, just relax," Michelle says, absentmindedly grabbing a cookie as she taps her pencil on the clipboard in her hands. "Mm – give my compliments to your mom, Mattie, these are delicious."

"Of course," Matthew says, smiling. "Glad you like them."

(and that was how it was, hollow smiles and polite phrases, well-polished words and a well-worn expressions, external stimuli and things-to-keep-you-busy –

– all to stop it. All to keep it away, that itch of panic-fear-worry that bit at him, the what-ifs and the right-nows – because right now, Gilbert was alone (still sleeping, last he'd seen), but what if he woke up, what if he –)

So Matthew smiled. Smiled and talked and brought cookies, because the alternative of distraction was far, far worse.

The moment he can, however, Matthew rushes straight back to his room.

* * *

><p>"Gil?" Mattie asks, throwing open the door. "Sorry I was gone for so long, I was going to–"<p>

"Hey, Mattie," Gil says, lifting a hand from his place on the ground without looking up at him.

Matthew blinks, confusion in his eyes and heart still pounding from his run back to his apartment –

And then notices the paper in Gilbert's hand. And then notices the way Gilbert looks at it – mouth taut and eyes unsmiling, eyes drawn and face suddenly full of shadows –

"What's that?"

"This?" Gil asks, suddenly seeming to register Matthew's presence for the first time as he turned around. "Oh, sorry – just a letter. Old friend," he says, quickly stuffing the letter into his pocket, and turning to Matthew with a smile on his face – but not before Matthew sees the way his eyes linger on the text, the way his fingers clench on the paper. "Sorry about that – and, well, you know, kind of not being here last night – but um, yeah, how are you?" he asks, suddenly meeting Mattie's eyes again and flashing him a wide grin. "Thanksgiving pretty good?"

(_he looks thinner_, Matthew thinks, _thinner and unkempt, stubble clinging to his chin and hair sticking out at odd angles –_)

Out loud, he says, "yeah. It was pretty good. How was yours?"

– but all the while he is not listening, all the while he is wary, careful. Watching.

"Pretty good," Gil says, but Matthew can tell that he isn't listening either, is distracted, too, shifting his weight from one foot to another even as they talk about the weather and Thanksgiving and their families – he's nervous, anyone could see that –

But _why_? Why, and _what?_

And Matthew's eye catches on the letter in Gil's pocket, and he thinks _ah. _

Perhaps that was it. Perhaps it wasn't, but Matthew didn't think so – he had always had good instincts, had always been good at seeing things that were beneath the surface. And besides, here – with no knowledge, no real facts about what was really going on, and both of Gilbert's best friends adamant on believing all his erratic shifts were just anomalies – here and now, worried and concerned, unsure and unhappy at his lack of knowledge, this was a start, this was a beginning. For one of the many questions drifting through Matthew's head, this could be an answer.

(_But what did it say?)_

He didn't know. But Matthew – heartbeat finally calm but heart no calmer, eyes surveying and catching everything – decided, there and then, that he was going to find out.

* * *

><p>Later, when both of them are in bed, Gilbert asleep or at least pretending to be, Matthew stares at the ceiling, radiator humming gently in the background, and thinks.<p>

He thinks, strangely enough, of the suitcase his mother had packed him. Of maple syrup and pecan pies, the recipes he had wanted to give Francis and the terrible tourist merchandise they would have made fun of, the YouTube videos they could have laughed over and the pancakes he had wanted to have made –

(Later, though, he tells himself. Later, when all this had passed, when all this had passed and they had managed to find what was wrong was Gilbert. Later.)

But later was not now, and so for now, the suitcase stayed closed, gifts and sweets locked safely inside. Better joys for a better time – and for now, tucked away for later.

* * *

><p>Soooo I've been hearing that the French makes the chapters a bit hard to read for some, so I'm trying to cut down on that, because it's completely not my goal to confuse anyone – but it kind of has a character purpose, too, so there's that, too ^^; If only there was some way to retcon some of my old content (and if only I had the time to do so...)<p>

Anyways, once again, thanks for reading and feel free to correct me on anything!

Translations:

ce n'était pas ça – (roughly) it wasn't that

du moins - at least

bien entendu - of course

autrefois - before

je voudrais entrer - I would enter

je _savais _que c'était - I knew that it was

Era bien, será bien - it was fine, it will be fine

de acuerdo? - okay?

je sais I know


	16. For Friendship, Perhaps

Finals are almost over, so posting unpolished fanfiction is I'm doing instead :P

Potential warnings for general teenagers being teenagers (aka assholes)?

(also, idk if anyone cares, but the title was shamelessly stolen from a _Revolutionary Girl Utena_ episode)

* * *

><p>Morning.<p>

"So tell me a-fucking-gain," Lovino says, leaning slightly on the table as he glares over his cappuccino, "why the fuck we chose to do this stupid experiment?"

"Because," Michelle says, bouncing her leg slightly as she glanced through dark sunglasses out at the street, "the last time we tried to come up with ideas, we ended up throwing ice cream at each other and getting kicked out of two stores. "

"So obviously we should had to take the first half-baked idea thrown at us, huh?"

"Pretty much," Michelle says, crossing her legs as she reached for coffee. "Also because you needed to learn to solve problems without yelling at people – oh, merde," she scowls, glancing at her watch, "don't tell me they're late _a_gain."

"Well, what the fuck did you expect?" Lovino asks. "You take on a job with three people best known for how often they're shit-faced –"

"One of which," Michelle says, glaring at Lovino, "happens to be my brother."

"Which somehow stops him from being an irresponsible womanizer?"

"No," Michelle sighs after a pause, "no, it doesn't. Makes him my brother, though."

"Yeah, well, that doesn't mean you him jack shit –"

"Yes, it _does," _Michelle counters, sighing as she shifts in the wrought iron seat. "Family's family," she says, absent-mindedly running a hand through her hair.

Lovino opens his mouth, and for a moment, it looks like he's about to response, to argue, say something caustic and scathing –

But then he stops, turns around and contents himself with a "hmph" as he crosses his arms.

And they continued waiting.

* * *

><p><em>"<em>_Suis désolé__, __vraiment__ désolé__, _Michelin_,_" Francis says, breathless but not wordless, practically tripping after Michelle as he apologizes, "seulemente Antonio's professor wouldn't let him out, et _alors _Gilbert wouldn't come at first, et _alors _it took so awfully long to convince him – et, bien –"

"Yeah, yeah," Michelle says, rolling her eyes as she corralled Antonio and Lovino into the other room, "I know, I know. Just not next time, okay? Ready, Antonio?"

"As I'll ever be," Antonio says, smile dazzling as he holds the door open. "Y tu, Lovino?"

"Fuck off."

"As ready as he'll ever be, then," Michelle translates, handing them their portfolios. "Chocolate chip today, so don't be a bitch about it, okay?"

And with that, she closes the door, marches back to the store.

Outside, Gilbert and Matthew sit across from each other. Gilbert looks no more rested than before, eyes dark-circled and slightly red, gaze flickering around him as he fidgets restlessly:

He says nothing to Matthew, and Matthew – though he glances at Gilbert every other moment, bites his lips in worry – says nothing back.

It is only when Antonio and Lovino come out – Antonio's "pues, that wasn't so bad, was it?" meeting nothing but a scowl from Lovino, albeit one with less venom – that they stand up, get up. Take their books, walk slowly away.

* * *

><p>Afternoon.<p>

It's the weekend, and Antonio drags them over for lunch – "Francis is cooking," he says, just a hint of a plea in his voice, "come on, it'll be _fun_" – and so they go over, Antonio keeping a steady stream of chatter up through the silence all the way.

And it's a sumptuous meal, a delicious meal, over-the-top in the way only Francis's cooking can be – but for all that, it is a somber one. Francis and Antonio talk, of course, try to fill the silence with words, anecdotes, inquiries and conversation starters – but, in the silence, the words sound empty, nothing more than desperate strings of cheerful chatter.

"Pues!" Antonio says, standing up in the middle of the meal. "We're all a little quiet today – ah, pues, no importa – pues! A change of scenery, then! A movie, tal vez? Aunque this time Francis can't choose, his movies are always strange and confusing –"

"Bien, what are you supposed to watch, alors? _C'est_ my apartment, après tout –"

"Ah, hablas si no tenemos una cosa llamado '_the internet_' –"

"It's fine," Gilbert says, standing up. "Put on whatever. I don't really care."

"Gil –"

"It's _fine," _Gilbert repeats, turning around and walking to the living room – but not before Matthew notices what is in his hand.

Francis notices it, too.

"Ooh, qu'est-ce _que c'est_?" he asks, leaning over Gilbert's shoulder and trying to glance at the paper. "A letter, hm?" he says, snatching it before Gilbert could react, "_comment intéressant_ – but who's it from, hm, now _that's _what's interesting. Ludwig, in Nevada? Non, non, a girl, now _that's_ –"

"None of your fucking business," Gilbert snaps, grabbing the letter from Francis. "I don't know if you've heard of it, but there's this fucking thing called privacy –"

"Dios mio, Gil," Antonio says, grabbing Gilbert by the arm, "we were only joking! You know that, you know that we wouldn't go through anything you didn't want us to –"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Gilbert says, brushing Antonio off and turning away, "it's the 'Gil can't take shit about shit' show, what else is new. Sorry for being emotionally volatile piece of shit."

"Gil –!" Antonio calls, stepping towards him. "You know that wasn't –"

"C'est bien," Francis says, sighing as he puts a hand on Antonio's shoulder. "Let him go."

"But," Antonio begins, and then stops, gives Francis a pleading look.

"C'est bien," Francis repeats. "You know what would happen – you'd only make him angry if you tried –"

"I _know_," Antonio says, "it's just –"

"Um," Matthew says, quietly standing up, "can I help?"

They turned.

"I mean," Matthew continues, "I know it might not do much, but I could try to talk to Gil – I could try to ask him what's wrong –"

"You could try," Francis agrees, "but would it do anything?"

And Matthew has no response to that.

"Look, Mattie," Francis says, walking over and putting his hands on Matthew's shoulders, "c'est bien. I know it might not seem like it, mais – c'est bien. Il sera bien. Gilbert will talk if and when he wants, mais d'ici là, we can't force him to – et ainsi, there's no use in worrying, is there? Maintenant, allons," he says, clapping Antonio and Matthew on the shoulder, "the cake's almost done. Nous devrions make sure it doesn't burn."

* * *

><p>Morning.<p>

Morning, and Matthew thinks about what Francis says, lies awake in the dark a little long as Francis's words drift through his mind.

Morning, and –

"Good morning," Matthew says, passing by Gilbert on his way out of the bathroom, hair still faintly damp. Gilbert nods, mutters, "good morning" back.

Matthew hesitates a moment, then calls out, "hey, Gil?"

Gilbert turns around.

"If there's anything you ever want to," Matthew begins, then hesitates, "I mean, just if there's anything you want to talk about –"

Gilbert continues staring at him, face blank and unchanging.

"– it's just, you can always talk to me. That's all."

"Okay," Gilbert says. "Good to know."

And, saying that, he closes the door.

Matthew bites his lip.

* * *

><p>Evening.<p>

The coffee shop is closing around him and his drink is already long past cold, but Matthew doesn't mind – doesn't notice it, really. Just sits there quietly, chin on one hand, dusk and darkness slowly coming down around him in the warm lamplight.

"Long time no see, huh?"

"Huh?"

"Oh, don't look so surprised," Joan says, rolling her eyes as she pulled out a chair, "it's not like campus is that big. Stay here long enough, you'll run into everyone eventually. So," she says, smiling as she sits down, "how are you?"

"Good," Matthew says, still blinking slightly in surprise, "and you?"

"Surviving," Joan shrugs, sipping her coffee. "Research papers are a bitch, but what can you do. And you?"

"About the same," Matthew says, smiling. "Finals are coming up, but other than that, they're fine."

"Oh?" Joan asks, putting her cup down as she tilts her head. "That's good. And how about life outside of classes? Been hearing _interesting _things about you, Matthew Williams, interesting things – word around campus is that you haven't really taken my advice, and rumor has that you're not only _still_ hanging around the Terrible Trio and the PMSing Pasta Boy, but also still rooming with the albino terror –"

"He's not that bad."

"Oh?"

"Yeah," Matthew says, looking up and meeting Joan's gaze. "None of them are – they're all really nice people, actually. Once you get to know them."

"Well, that's good then," Joan says, after a pause. "Course, I wouldn't have the patience to stick around that long – but I'm glad they're treating you well."

She smiles at Matthew, hands wrapped around her coffee – and, after a while, warily, Matthew smiles back.

And they sit there a while, the evening quietly turning pink-purple-black behind them.

"Well," Joan says finally, glancing at her phone as she stands up, "looks like I've got to go. Nice seeing you again, Mattie – and hey, ever need anything," she says, taking a business card out of her purse and tossing it at him, "just give me a call."

"Um," Matthew says, staring at the curlicue writing on cardstock (gold embossing? Seriously? Wasn't that something that only happened in the movies?), "yeah. Sure."

Joan smiles in response, shrugging her purse over one shoulder, and turns to leave –

"Joan?"

"Hm?"

"What if," Matthew says, raising his head, "you had a friend – a really, really good friend – and they didn't say anything, but you could tell, you could just _tell_ they were going through a hard time – what," he asks, looking her in the eyes, "would you do?"

"Well," Joan says after a while, the clock _tick-tick-ticking _as she thinks, "I'd try to talk them, maybe, ask them what was wrong –"

"What if they didn't to, though? Didn't want to talk, I mean. But you could tell something was wrong, you could just _tell –_ what would you do, then?"

Joan pauses.

"Well," she says slowly, seeming to carefully chose each word, "in that case, I'd tell someone – a counselor or an RA. Maybe a parent. But, beyond that? There's much you can do besides that. Your friend – whoever it is, I'm guessing a classmate or someone? – they're an adult, they're responsible for their own choices. You can't force them to do anything, even if it would be honestly better than what they're doing now. Hon, you can't help people who don't want to be helped –"

"But I could try though, couldn't I?"

"Yes," Joan concedes, "that's true. You can try – you can try to help as much as you can. Who knows," she says, shrugging as she stands up, "maybe that might even work. In my experience, though," she adds, looking Matthew in the eyes, "it's best not to expect any miracles."

* * *

><p>And Matthew thinks about that. And Matthew sits there, mentally measures words against variables, weighs warnings against colors, sights, smudged silences and bits of conversation –<p>

He thinks of the conversations they had that morning, the 'okay' and the closed doors. Thinks of Joan's advice and thinks of Gilbert's brother (terse and gruff, foreboding in a no-nonsense way and away for an externship anyways), thinks of their RA (a nice guy, Matthew supposed, fussy in the way of a mother hen – but also over-worked, relentlessly practical almost to the point of callous, and too close for comfort, besides), thinks of Gilbert's parents (faceless, amorphous figures he had never met – strangers, essentially, and Matthew had never been good with strangers –)

And Matthew thinks, and he decides.

* * *

><p>Afternoon, and Matthew finishes his classes early, smiles as he leaves Michelle and Lovino – "where are you going?" Michelle asks, furrowing her brow as he walks away, and Matthew answers, "chores," chores and groceries and laundry, that was all – and they seem to accept that, let him go, though Lovino grumbles about priorities and <em>proper timing <em>("knock it off," Michelle scolds, hitting him with her purse, "Mattie's not obliged to hang out with us, he's got his own life, is probably really busy or something –")

Yeah. Busy. Things to do, things to be doing.

Turn and left to West Fourth Street, take the F and go until East Broadway, then walk to the Lower East Side, then a few streets down, a couple of blocks west –

And suddenly, there it was. Gilbert's apartment, five stories up and two to the left.

Matthew stands in front of the building for a few minutes, blinking up as he tries to ascertain whether it is the right place – same weatherworn front, same wrought-iron railings, same art deco flourishes contrasting with the spindly stairs. Same tulip outside the fourth flower window, albeit more withered than before.

And then, nodding to himself, Matthew walks forward, five stories up and two to the left.

Same flowers outside, same splash of paint on the doorknob, same ornate decoration around the iron doorframe –

Right.

Matthew rings the doorbell.

He waits, one, two, three, and then rings again.

No one answers.

Matthew bites his lip.

Well.

He stood there for a moment, peered into the windows (_shades drawn and dark beneath anyways), _then crossed his arms, tilting his head as he tried to regroup.

(_Logically, _of course, _logically, it was probably because he was early, probably because Gil's father was at still work – and of course it was, of course it was, it was only four, people didn't get back at four unless they were or part-time college students, of course they didn't, that was obvious, wasn't it? – and _God,_ what was he thinking –) _

Logically, of course. Logically, he should wait, come back later (_or_, some small, turncoat corner of his mind said, _not at all_, _leave what was put_ _put _–)

No.

No, because that was what was Francis and Antonio had done; no, because that was what had happened for the last week, the last month, for far, far too long –

No, because he was worried. No, because Gilbert was his friend.

* * *

><p>So he waits. Kills time by walking around, leaves falling and music spilling out of stores as he strolls, stopping occasionally to gaze at landmarks he'd only seen in tourist guides. This time of the year, the streets are mostly devoid of tourists, the few visitors skinny-jeaned hipsters busily Instagramming the landscape as neighborhood kids run shouting between them. At a deli, he orders latkes and lox, chews as an old Chinese couple drinks coffee and kvetches behind him.<p>

When he finishes, it is already getting dark, so Matthew leaves, muttering a quiet thank you as the cashier hands him his change.

Past the museum and through the park, two streets down then five stories up, and there is Gilbert's apartment. Same plants, same door, and now lights in the window.

And so Matthew swallows and knocks, then stands back and waits –

"_Fuck – _hang on, I'll be there in a second –"

– and then freezes.

He knew that voice – that was Gil's voice – but what was he?

(_stupid, he should have expected this, it _was _his house after all–stupid, stupid stupid– ) _

Footsteps padding to the door –

And Matthew panics. And he runs.

Five floors up, Gilbert opens the door, blinks when he sees no one there.

"Fucking kids," he mutters after a while, closing the door.

Stupid stupid _stupid – _what had he been thinking, what had he _expected –_ of _course _something like this was going to happen, it was his _house _after all – why had he _ever _thought this was a good idea –

Well. There was nothing to do, then – even if he was finally back, Matthew could hardly talk to Mr. Beilschmidt with Gil there, which meant that there was nothing else to do, nothing but take the subway back, go home and pretend that none of this had happened –

(_except –)_

Except, he didn't. Except, for some reason, he couldn't.

So he stayed. Sat there, on one of the hard municipal benches, quietly watching the lights on the fifth floor – acutely aware of how voyeuristic it was all, yet fixated, unable to turn away.

On-off, on-off, lights turning on and off families came and left –

(_sometimes, people just need to be left alone)_

Yeah. That was true, wasn't it? – was what everyone else had told him so _so _many times, wasn't it? And, it had turned out in the end, that they were right, and that he should have listened, should have _listened –_

But he hadn't.

And here he was, sitting outside his roommate's apartment, watching him through the window.

(_it's best not to expect any miracles)_

Matthew knows that. Knows that, knew that, had long since acknowledged it as fact, knew so long and so deeply it _hurt, _a sharp ache in his chest cutting off air when he tried to breathe –

He knew.

(And anyways, miracles didn't exist.)

Someone behind him, a small group of people shouted to each other, words slurred as they staggered and laughed. Frat boys, probably; drunk, definitely.

(_you can try)_

– and he had, he had tried, tried to talk to Gil, tried to ask Antonio and Francis, tried to _tell _Gilbert's brother, Gilbert's father, someone, anyone –

(_but would it do anything?)_

He didn't know. He didn't _know –_

"Hey, you!"

Matthew looked up.

"Ah, _fuuuck," _one of the frat boys says, visibly sagging as he staggered towards Matthew, "I thought it was a girl."

"Fuuuuck, you're really smashed, aren't you? How the fuck could you mistake that for a chick – no tits on that, man, how much have you fucking had to drink –"

"Shut up, it's not my fault all the fags in this city have such fucking long hair –"

Quietly, Matthew checks that his wallet is there, slowly stands up and turns to leave.

"Now just wait there," one of them – a redhead, the bulkiest of the bunch and probably the leader – says, putting a hand on Matthew's shoulder, "where d'ya think _you're_ going, pretty boy?"

"Excuse me," Matthew mutters, lowering his head and trying to duck past –

"Hey," his attacker says, grip only tightening as he strides in front of Matthew, "I was talking to _you_, fag. What's the matter, never heard of manners?"

"Yeah, that's right – what's the maah-da, never heard of maaah-ners –"

"Think we should teach him some, huh?"

Matthew blinks.

There were three of them – three of them, not all taller, but all far stockier than him. He'd faced similar odds, but that had been hockey, regulated for all its brutality – and for all his attackers' inebriation, he had no delusions about his chances if it came to a fight. He was smaller, though, and faster without a doubt – which meant that if he could distract them, then how wasted they were, maybe, maybe –

"Hey, fag, are you even _listening?"_

Alright then. On the count of three: one, two, three –

"What the fuck do you think you're _doing?"_

Matthew spins around.

And there is Gilbert – barefoot as he stood there, hair askew and eyes furious.

"Oh, would you look at that," the redhead says, grinning brightly as he pushes Matthew back, "we've got ourselves a party now – looks like the boyfriend's here, too."

"Right, as if that's going to convince anyone you don't spend every weekend sucking dick," Gilbert retorts, taking a step forward. "Leave, and I might consider letting this go."

"Yeah?" the redhead asks, smirking as he takes a step forward. "And who the fuck do you think you are?"

"Gil, what are you –"

"Someone who's been on this turf a lot longer than you," Gilbert says, ignoring Matthew as he meets the other boy's gaze. "Someone who likes their limbs a lot fucking more than you like yours."

"Oh, is that so? What, you think you're some kind of badass?"

"Yeah," Gilbert says, eyes steady as they start to circle each other. "I do. I kind of am."

"Guess nobody told you about me, then," redhead says, sneering as he whips out a knife.

"Yeah?" Gilbert asks, eyes unflinching in the gleam of the metal. "Guess nobody told you not to bring a knife to a gunfight, then."

And, reaching under his jacket, he pulls out a semi-automatic, points it between reddened eyes.

In the silence that follows, Matthew can hear several sharp intakes of breath.

"It's empty," the redhead says, but his voice is unsure, shakes when he says it, "you're bluffing, there's nothing inside –"

Gilbert fires once, twice, three shots that resonate off the concrete.

"There," he says, shots still echoing around them, "still think I'm bluffing?"

"You wouldn't – you _wouldn't –"_

"The police'll be here soon," Gilbert continues, voice even as he keeps the gun raised. "Awful shame if someone here happened to already have a record." In the darkness, his eyes gleamed bright, gleamed red.

The group hesitated for a moment, and then – as one – ran.

"Fuckers," Gilbert mutters, dropping his stance. "High school dropouts who think they're tough because they can't be fucked to get a job," he says, still staring after them in disgust as he tucks the gun away, "can't _stand _them, any of those _assholes_ – are you okay?" he asks, abruptly turning to Matthew. "I was just out when I heard – they weren't here too long, were they? They didn't do anything, did they? – _God, _they better fucking have not, because if they did, if they _did,_ I fucking swear –"

"Gil, I'm fine!" Matthew exclaims. Then, softer, "are you?"

"Oh," Gilbert says, voice calming. "That's good. The East Side's not the safest place after dark," he continues, not seeming to hear the second part of Matthew's words, "you shouldn't go out alone, you think some place is safe, and then you get fucking punks like that –"

Abruptly, he stops, falls silent as he stares into space.

"Gil?" Matthew asks softly, slowly stepping forward. "Are you –"

"I'm fine," Gilbert says, brusquely turning around. "Anyways," he says, turning away and shoving his hands into his pockets, "it's dark, and it's not going to get any safer. Someone'll be phoning the cops soon. We should go back."

And perhaps it was the shock, the adrenaline and effect of several days of worry finally hitting him, because Matthew doesn't think to question any of it, only nods, agrees, follows after as Gilbert puts away his things and hails a cab.

It is only later – later, when they are both back, the lights off and safely ensconced within a heavy layer of blanket – that the questions come: _why was Gil in Lower East Side, why didn't Gil question that _he_ was in Lower East Side_ –

(and perhaps most important of all - why had Gilbert been outside with a gun?)

* * *

><p>Translations:<p>

French

Suis désolé_, vraiment_ désolé - I'm sorry, so very sorry

seulemente - only

et alors - and then

et, bien - and, well

après tout - after all

qu'est-ce _que c'est - _what is that?

_comment intéressant_ - how interesting

Il sera bien - it will be fine

mais d'ici là - but until then

et ainsi – and so

Maintenant, allons - now, come on

nous devrions - we should

Spanish

pues - well

no importa - it's not important

tal vez = maybe

aunque = athough

hablas si no tenemos una cosa llamado - you speak as if you don't have a thing called


	17. Act One: Fin

Matthew wakes up, and Gilbert is not there.

There is a moment – just a moment, as he lies there in the weak sunlight, consciousness slowly returning along with a growing sense of horror and silent _no no no_ – of deliberation, a split-second in which he wonders whether he might be overreacting, whether it might all just be the paranoia of the past few days and the best thing to do would be just go to class –

Just a moment, though. And that is all.

Fumbling on his dresser, Matthew finds his phone, and calls Gilbert.

In the space between dialing and finding a signal, Matthew can hear every heartbeat, loud and heavy against his chest as he stands there, mind a litany of _oh God please no no no _–

Several feet away, a phone rings.

Slowly, very slowly, Matthew turns around, sees Gilbert's phone on the edge of Gilbert's bed.

Then – slowly, very slowly – he puts his phone down, and sits down.

He closes his eyes, reminds himself to _breathe, breathe_, and then, opening his eyes, picks up his phone again.

He tries first Francis, and then Antonio.

No one answers.

For a few seconds, Matthew doesn't move – only stays there, time seeming to stop as he sits there, stock-still silent with a phone pressed to his ear –

Far, far away, a million miles, perhaps (or so it seemed), Gilbird chirped, pressed his head inquisitively against bright blue bars.

And, somewhere closer yet still vastly distant, Matthew stands up and, not bothering to even glance at a jacket, slowly walks outside.

* * *

><p>And as always when these things happened, he had been unable to sleep. It had been twelve, one, three, and Gilbert had still been there, unable to shut out the accusations his mind seemed to be lobbing with increasing frequency and ease these days.<p>

He had, at one point between three and four finally managed to fall asleep – only to wake, barely two hours later, gasping from nightmare afterimages that still played across his eyes. Even in sleep, it seemed, his thoughts refused to leave.

So he had done what he had always done when these things happened: put on his shoes and jacket, grabbed his iPod, and walked outside.

Even at six in the morning, New York is not a quiet city, and even with his music turned up, the sounds of the city filter through – early morning cabs and the tinkling of opening delis, grey-suited businessmen walking past, only five in the morning and already arguing away on their Androids. Combined with his iPod, it made for a cacophony of noise, but Gilbert didn't mind. It distracted him, gave him something else to concentrate on in lieu of the things he'd rather not think about.

The things, really, that he'd been thinking about all last night.

Led Zeppelin comes on_, _and, absentmindedly, Gilbert presses his earphones in a little harder.

It doesn't stop the images from coming, though.

(in the flickering streetlight, Matthew standing there – logically, of course, no shorter than the punks cornering him, yet in the fluorescent light, looking so much smaller, so much _younger – _if he had been any later, if he –)

Barrow Street and Bedford, and Gilbert turns left, feet tracing the route more than his conscious mind, turning the volume up as he shifts direction.

(and what had that been about, before that? Going outside, trying to – what? shut the noise in his head by shooting it away? – what the _fuck _had that been about, how the fuck would that have worked anyway – had he even fucking _thought _before he'd rushed outside –

Of course not, though. Of course not. Since when had he had, since when had he ever done something right and thought it through –)

_Immigrant Song, _Gilbert suddenly realizes,isn't loud enough; he presses skip, visibly relaxes as Iron Maiden comes on.

There are, in the faint light of dawning day, a few moments of blessed silence before it begins again.

(because if it weren't for him, after all, Matthew wouldn't have been there, because why else would he have been in Lower East Side? Because of him – because he couldn't keep his mouth fucking shut or his emotions under fucking control, because his friends were all worried, were all scared, because they all _cared, _and all his pissy bullshit was doing was making them more worried and scared, because he was just fucked up to get his _fucking act together –_

Getting his roommate in danger, worrying his friends, making his little brother too embarrassed to answer his calls – what kind of a fucking brother was he, what kind of a fucking _friend –_)

Hands shaking, Gilbert slams his hand on the volume button, then stares blankly when the white bars register full.

He stands there for a way, a single figure frozen amidst a landscape of rushing workers and hurrying businessmen – and then, suddenly angry, suddenly furious, violently presses skip, stops only when he gets to heaviest metal he has, then lets the noise wash over him as him as he continues walking.

* * *

><p>He didn't know where he was going – he hadn't, really, had rushed out without any preplanned destination, only the faint premonition, the tenuous thought that perhaps if he walked outside, just walked outside or turned a corner or went another block, Gilbert would be there –<p>

Barrow's on his left and David's on his right, Golden Rule and Alexandra's ahead, and Gilbert still nowhere to be found – but no, no, he must have had it wrong, was probably searching the wrong places – Gil wasn't here, of course he wasn't, was probably at Brown or Main instead, in one of the chem or physics labs checking on an experiment or something else, perfectly normal and perfectly safe –

(a million chemicals on each table, radioactive warnings on every other door and device, and everything flammable, everything corrosive, everything toxic or hazardous or–)

On the other side of the street, a bell rings: Baskin-Robbins. Holding his father's hand, a boy walks inside, points at the flavor he wants. A group of tourists pass Matthew, the tour guide's voice booming back, microphone-enhanced and echoing through the vast space. Somewhere, someone laughs, a noise that catches, stretches and echoes, twisting among the sounds of cars honking and people talking –

Okay. Slow down. Breathe, breathe, everything is going to be alright – Gil was probably fine, it was probably all just nothing –

– but even as Matthew says it, a thousand possibilities otherwise spring to mind, crushing the air out of his lungs once again by the vast infinity of things that could go wrong, would go wrong –

Somewhere amidst the panic, a corner of his consciousness registers something ringing, and – reflexively, robotically, hardly conscious he was doing it – Matthew takes his phone out and glances at the screen.

Antonio's name stares up at him in large, neon colors.

Matthew stares at it for a moment – _it's Antonio, Antonio's coming to help, he's coming to help, and he's going to, he's going to fix everything and then everything will be alright – _and then he presses answer, brings the phone to his ear.

"Mattie?" and it's Antonio's voice, slightly confused and barely awake, but it's Antonio's voice, and Matthew wants to cry because of that, "did you call? It's early, mi amgio – dios Mio, it's _Saturday –_ que pasó, do you need something –"

"Antonio," Matthew says, somehow managing to keep his voice from shaking, "it's Gil."

* * *

><p>Gilbert gets back to his room, and Matthew is not there.<p>

For a moment, he is frozen; for a moment, he stands, suddenly unsure of what to do.

Well. It was hardly like this was some sort of extraordinary event – it was a Saturday, Matthew had his own life and friends, of course he wouldn't necessarily be here whenever Gilbert wanted him to be –

Of course. And yet, somehow, subconsciously, he had expected him to be; had really, now that his emotions were haywire and his mind frazzling at the edges, _needed _him to be there. In their short months rooming together, Gilbert had grown used to Matthew's presence – a quiet, barely-there presence at times, yes, but one that had nonetheless always been _there,_ stable and constant. In a way, reassuring.

His last roommate, well, he had applied for a room transfer after a month – said he couldn't stand the constant music and the late-night drunken entrances. Francis had told him not to mind too much, and honestly, Gilbert hadn't; guy was a total square anyways, had never been any fun as it was, always complaining and threatening to tell the administration on him. All his roommate's departure meant was more space for his stuff, and that was alright with Gilbert.

Still. Still, there had been something else there, some sense of vague letdown, the feeling of having botched it all without knowing how – his Vater's expression when he had received the news, not even disappointment, not even shock, only a resigned look of having expected it all already –

And then along had come Mattie, all unsure phrases and averted eyes – and Gilbert, well, he had thought here was a new chance, here was a clean slate, someone he hadn't yet hurt or fucked up –

And now Matthew was gone.

Standing in the doorway of the empty room, Gilbert feels, suddenly, five again: five again and clinging to his opa's hands, five again and watching confusedly as his mother kisses him goodbye, that same sense of hurt and hopeless lostness coming over him all over again, all these years later. And, for just a brief moment, he feels like crying.

* * *

><p>"Gil?" Antonio asks, sounding confused. "What about –"<p>

"He's not here," Matthew says, "I woke up, and he wasn't there, and I don't know where he is, and–"

"Mattie!" Antonio exclaims. "Calm down! Take a deep breath, bien? Take a deep breath, mi amigo, and then tell me."

Antonio waits until Matthew's breathing has evened out somewhat, and then gently asks, "what's wrong?"

Closing his eyes and counting _one, two, three_, Matthew tries again.

"I know you guys said not to be, but I've been really worried about Gil lately, and he's been acting really strange, and when I woke up this morning, he wasn't here. And I know it's probably an overreaction or something, but I'm really, really worried he's going to do something – something stupid or dangerous. That something bad is going to happen."

For what seems like an infinitely long time, there is silence on the other side of the phone.

"Bien," Antonio finally says, "entonces, I'll get Francis. We'll be there soon – pero, until then, try not to worry too much, bien?"

* * *

><p>And just as suddenly as it had come, the strange melancholy leaves – leaves, because now Gilbert is <em>angry, <em>furious, pacing as he rages against everything and everyone: fuck Francis and fuck his diplomacy, always trying to play the good friend, the _responsible _friend keeping him out of trouble, like he was something broken that couldn't be seen by company; fuck Antonio and his mothering, treating him like he was twelve or something, who the _fuck _did he think he was; fuck Matthew and –

And all of a sudden, he is close to crying again.

He couldn't do this. He _couldn't._ His mind was going a hundred miles an hour, the same sort of fever-buzz he'd thrived off when up or drunk – only this time the words were wrong, all sharp pieces of jagged glass running through his head, saying_ fuckup fuckup fuckup –_

God, he couldn't deal with this. God, he needed, needed – needed fucking _something, _a drink or a videogame or even a fucking problem set, something to do and distract him, or if not that, at the very least some fucking _sleep –_

(to sleep, perchance to dream – what had that been from? _Hamlet,_ was it? Some tenth grade theater bullshit, a role taken just to prove Liza wrong – oh, but Liza, that was another bad train of thought, mustn't let himself think on _her _too, that would just be the icing on the cake – but what had the next lines been again? It hadn't been that long ago, he couldn't have forgotten it all already – that would have been bullshit, that would have been stupid, would have been exactly what everyone would expect:

"Aye (bullshit word, he'd always thought), but there's the rub (yes and now there was now, now it was all coming back)/For in that sleep of death"–)

But _fuck, _that, _that_ right there was why he needed a drink in the first place – a drink or a nap or _something, _because right now his mind was spiraling in twenty directions at once and he couldn't think straight and, and, and –

* * *

><p>"Matthieu?" Francis asks, yawning as he approaches, bruises evident under his for-once undone collar. "Il est trop tôt, mon ami, not even noon yet – qu'est-ce qui se passe? Antonio told me you called et que you were saying something about Gil –"<p>

"I can't find him," Matthew says, words spilling out in spite of himself, "he's not there, and I've been really worried –"

"Bien entendu, bien entendu," Francis says, voice already assuming that faintly mollifying tone that meant Matthew was overreacting, "we are all, when he's like this – mais mon cher, that doesn't mean anything has happened –"

"No," Matthew says, impatient with explaining, impatient with Francis's refusal to believe him, "look, I know what you're going to say, and I know I sound paranoid, but Francis, I've got a really, really bad feeling about this – I think, no, I _know _something bad is going to happen –"

Shifting on his feet, Francis glances at Antonio, who nods, takes a step forward.

"Hey, Mattie," Antonio says, putting a hand on his shoulder, "pues, I think you might be stressing yourself out – you should lie down and rest, quizás –"

"No!" Matthew shouts and is vaguely aware of shouting, of people staring, but he doesn't _care, _not now, "Antonio, I saw Gil yesterday, and he had a _gun_."

* * *

><p>Okay. A drink. Or a nap. That should do it. That should work.<p>

There's half a bottle of scotch in his fridge and a half bottle of Somnil on the dresser; Gilbert, after a half-moment of hesitation, takes them both, sits back down on his bed with his whisky (ethanol, C2H6O) and his sleeping pills (doxylamine succinate, C17H22N2O).

He takes a shot of the whiskey first and then, hands shaking slightly from sleeplessness, shakes the Somnil into his hand.

But _fuck, _he'd meant to only pour out a pill, but instead the bottle had slipped, spilled one-two-three-four, a whole handful of pretty pink pills onto his palm instead of the one he'd wanted –

That was okay, though. Better to be sure, just in case this happened to be one of those days when his mind simply wouldn't cooperate and shut up after one, instead just leave him tossing and turning, unable to quiet the garish regrets playing across his brainin endless loop –

Right. Drink, pills, sleep.

He says that to himself, repeats it, a litany against the other whispers in his head, as he pours himself a cup of water from the bathroom tap, swallows it with his handful of pills.

Nodding to himself, Gilbert looks up in the mirror, then, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, walks back to his bed.

He lies there, closes his eyes, and waits for sleep to come.

It doesn't.

It doesn't doesn't _doesn't, _and suddenly the fact that it _doesn't _hits Gilbert, terrifying and awful and with all the force of a freight train – and fuck fuck _fuck, _that can't happen, that can't work, this was his plan, this was supposed to make it work, make things better, this was –

And suddenly he is sitting up, reaching for the bottle of Somnil, hastily unscrewing it and pouring the pills into his hand, swallowing them with sloppily poured shots of scotch that spilled all over the wood and carpeting – but he didn't care, he didn't care, all he needed to do was make the images in his mind stop, to make them –

(because if they didn't, if they di–)

* * *

><p>"You've tried calling him?"<p>

"Yes," Matthew says, glad that Antonio and Francis have finally decided to believe him, but still frustrated that it took them so long, "I did, but his phone's in the dorm, I think he forgot it –"

"We'll need to check the bars, then," Francis says, turning to Antonio, who nods. "Ensuite the clubs, ensuite Feli's apartment, ensuite, if he's not at there – bien, nous avons toujours NYPD."

"Not that we'll need to, of course," Antonio adds, seeing the look on Matthew's face, "just as a last resort, if we need them."

"Bien sûr," Francis agrees, "bien sûr. De plus, we should split up – Antonio, tu peux take everything east, et je peux l'ouest. We'll save time that way, cover more ground – et, Mathieu?" he says, suddenly turning around.

"Yes?"

"Go home," Francis says gently. "You're white as a sheet, et mon Dieu, no wonder – it must have been a long day for you. I'm sorry I didn't believe you earlier. Mais, allez we'll walk you back – you look like you're going to collapse on your feet."

Matthew is about to protest, but then he realizes that it's true – that he is, indeed, tired, tired and shaky and far too bone-weary to protest as Francis and Antonio lead him back to his room.

"There," Antonio says, gently taking Matthew's keys and opening the door, "take a nap or something, we'll be back in an hour or–"

* * *

><p>AN: Aaaaand that's a cap to the first act! More chapters will be forthcoming (and hopefully soon!), but thanks (as always!) for reading thus far - you're all the best and deserve all the cookies ;w;

As always, if I make a mistake in language, feel free to correct me, and I will make changes!

Translations:

que pasó - what happened

Il est trop tôt, mon ami - it's too early

qu'est-ce qui se passe - what happened?

Bien entendu/bien sûr - of course

mais mon cher - but my dear

quizás – perhaps

ensuite – then

nous avons toujours - we always have

tu peux - you can

et je peux l'ouest - and I can

mais, allez - but, come


	18. Over(dose)reaction

"So, how are you feeling?"

* * *

><p>Bright lights. The scent of antiseptic:<p>

Waiting room chairs, chipping yellow paint and hard plastic. Magazines spilling out of their racks, glossy pages of _Sports Illustrated_ and _Good Housekeeping _eagle-spread on faux-wood tables. The television, nearly mute as itbroadcast football the background, a clock, tick-tick-tocking the time, tick-tick-tocking the minutes away.

Otherwise, silence. No children screaming or half-whispered cell phones calls, only the silent tension of thirty-some people desperately waiting for and dreading the same thing: news.

Footsteps, and all heads go up. Wondering, is it me, is it good or is it, could it be –

"Matthew Williams, Antonio Fernández Carriedo, and Francis Bonnefoy?"

Three figures stand up, and through the rest of the room, a sigh of half-relief, half-disappointment. The crisis-miracle averted, the faint sounds of thirty-some minus three people settling in for the anticipatory process once again.

"You can come in, now."

* * *

><p>"So Gilbert Beilschmidt, is it? Or do you prefer Gil?"<p>

"Either one's fine."

"Well, alright then Gil, I'm Doctor Leonard, and I'll be in charge of getting you set up here, alright? Just need you to confirm some basic information for me first – birthday one-eighteen-ninety-three, sophomore at New York University?"

"Yeah."

"Use any drugs or alcohol?"

"I drink."

"How often?"

A pause before answering. "Once or twice a week." Depending on the week – if, for example, it was during Lent.

The scratch of pen on paper: checking boxes, recording data before looking up again.

"Now, your medical records say that you've been diagnosed with type I bipolar disorder and prescribed Eskalith. Are you still taking it?"

No response.

"Gilbert? Gil, did you hear what I asked you? I know there's a bit of construction going on outside, so if you need me to repeat anything, just tell –"

"I threw it away."

"I'm sorry?"

"The medicine. I threw it away."

A pause. Glasses readjusting, chair creaking as legs cross, pen tapping against clipboard.

"Can you tell me why you did that?"

No response.

"Gil, I know it probably isn't pleasant to talk about this, but you must realize that this is _crucial _information, this is something that would help us deal with your situation much more efficiently and release you much, much sooner –"

"I threw the fucking medicine away because I couldn't think on it, okay? Which yeah, I know, was a fucking stupid thing to do and makes me a fucking idiot and an irresponsible piece of shit, etc, so on and so forth – there, I admit it, okay? Is that good enough for you? Is that what you fucking _want?_"

* * *

><p>Bright lights. The smell of antiseptic:<p>

Glass windows, reinforced to bulletproof. Chairs, less dilapidated but no more comfortable than the ones in the main waiting room.

The nurses, padding down halls in ergonomic shoes ("you can wait," pulling out several chairs, "here"). The doctors, gone to check on other wards ("he should be stable enough to move in a few hours, but we'll keep him in ICU until then"). At the nurse's station, the occasional beep-beep-beep of patient alerts, IVs to readjust or medicines to refill. Again, the clock, again, the steady tick-tick-tocking of time away.

"Matthew," Antonio says, shifting in his seat after an hour or so of silent waiting, "si quieres, you can go home if you want –"

A shake of the head. A brief smile, which would have been more reassuring if it hadn't been so strained.

"I'm fine."

"Are you sure? The doctors said it could be a while before they'll be sure, so we could take shifts, to make it –"

"It's alright," Matthew says, eyes behind glasses tired, but also somehow gently implacable, patiently steady, "I'll wait."

* * *

><p>"Gil, you do understand that I'm trying to help you."<p>

"Yeah."

"Can you tell me, then, what happened yesterday?"

No response.

"How were you feeling yesterday? Did anything bad happen lately, or had you been feeling down for a while?"

No response.

"Look, Gil, I know it's hard, but can you please tell me about what happened last night? We already have a rough record of what happened, but that's all pieced together from what your friends told us when they brought you in, and so we'd appreciate it if you gave us your account as well –"

"Which friends?"

"Good ones, by the looks of it – your roommate, I think, was one of them? Matthew, if I remember correctly. Called and came in with two older boys, Francis and Antonio I think they were–"

"What did you tell them_._"

"Well, not me exactly – I wasn't there yet, still sending my girls to school; kids, you know – but the nurse who handled your friends. They were quite worried, you see, so as a sort of a reassurance, she gave them some basic information –"

"_How much?_"

"Well, Gil, like I said, just very, very basic information – your diagnosis, really, the only point of sensitive information, in order to ask them about medications that might have interact with the Somnil – which, luckily or unluckily as it were, there weren't any – but, well, I'm afraid I'm don't see how any of this is terribly relevant – "

"_Because you had no fucking right to do that, you had no fucking_ right_–" _

* * *

><p>(Bright lights. The smell of antiseptic:<p>

A small boy, all pale skin and white hair and right arm a mess of red, red, red. In the dim bathroom light, the blood shiny, horror movie lurid.

Next to him, an old man, bent slightly as he swabs the wound with ethanol-soaked cotton balls. Besides an occasional flinch, the boy is otherwise calm, sniffling every so often less in fear than in the emotional exhaustion that is left after a long, long day.

"Ach, Gilbert," the old man says, voice tired but quietly patient, "stillhalten – you'll hurt yourself more if you move around. Mein Gott, wie oft muss ich dir sagen–"

"Es war nicht _meine_ Schuld_," _the boy protests, voice high and indignant as he obediently held his arm still, "there were _three_ of them, Opa, and one of them had a knife, and that's not _fair_."

"Mein Gott, child," the old man sighs, putting down the cotton swabs and reaching for a packet of antibiotics, which he tears and begins spreading over the wound, "it doesn't matter ob is "fair" oder nicht. _Was_ matters ist dass your Vater worries, that he works late Nacht because he wants to buy gutes food für you und Luddy, drive you to Schule und von all deinen Schulclubs, damit you can go to eine gute Schule und get einen guten Job, not pick fights mit anyone who looks at you strangely – "

"They called him _stupid, _Opa! They said Vati was _stupid _and that his English was worse than the Chicanos and that he must have been – must have been stupid for trying to stay with Mutti, and that Mutti – that Mutti was a, was a _whore –"_

"Hey," the old man says, catching and gently cupping the boy's face in his hands, "du weißt that isn't true, oder? So there's nothing to be upset about, mein kleiner Sodat, there's nothing to cry about. Besides, dein Vater will only worry.")

And now, against the same backdrop, another scene, years and miles apart –

"_He didn't tell us."_

Francis says it first, and he keeps on saying it, long after the doctor leaves, repeating it as he paces back and forth in the small office.

"Francis," Antonio says, standing up and placing a hand on his arm, "please –"

"He didn't _tell us!" _Francis shouts, turning around, hair for once disheveled and eyes wild. "We've known him for, quoi, _two _years, walked home drunk et sat in jail together, _ensemble_, pour deux ans, _two years, _et tout ce temps, _all that time_ –"

"Francis," Antonio says quietly, "I know it's hard, but –"

"We're his friends, non?" Francis says, words anguished but even so, somehow unreal – like everything else, the gestures and words like something from a soap opera, stilted even as they came out. "Alors, porquoi, why didn't he –"

"Because," Matthew says quietly, half talking to himself, "maybe he didn't want this to happen. Maybe," he says, slowly looking up, "he thought we'd overreact."

* * *

><p>"Gil, you seem rather agitated. Should I call for a nurse?"<p>

"No."

"Are you sure? I certainly wouldn't hope to distress you, and if there's anything you need, anything at all –"

"_No."_

A pause.

"Alright, then. I'll trust you on that, then."

Another pause. Glasses being adjusted, weight shifting forward. "Can you tell me, then, what happened last night?"

A brief silence. And then –

"I took the pills because my mind felt like it was on speed – and, no, I haven't tried it, why the fuck would I need to when my brain does a pretty good copy of that every other month – except this time instead of telling me what a great place! the world was! and all the great things! I should be doing! like, right! fucking! now!, it decided, well, fuck you asshole, here's a list of all the shit you've screwed up since you were born."

"Ah." Pen on paper. "In that case, it sounds like you were experiencing a typical mixed episode –"

"I know the fucking terminology."

"I know you do. That was for myself, for clarification."

* * *

><p>The clock, tick-tick-tocking in the silence. The sound of scratching pens, of papers flipping over each other.<p>

Pause, pen tap-tap-tapping against clipboard as glance shifts up. A smile; a peace offering.

"I know this has been hard on you, but I'm almost finished here, so I'll leave you alone soon, alright?"

No response. As usual.

"Now, about visitors – your friends were here earlier, but seeing as you were unconscious at the time and we could hardly let them visit you in ICU, visiting policies weren't exactly a problem, then. But, well, the policies do exist, and while I'm sure you'll have no lack of people wanting to come by and say hi, whether or not you accept them is your choice, of course –"

"No."

Pause.

"Are you –"

_"Yes."_

Another pause: longer, this time.

"Well, then, that's your choice, and I certainly won't challenge it, but as it is – from what Emily tells me, at least – you seem to already have some visitors – have had, actually; apparently, your family's been in the waiting room since twelve –"

"My fami – you _told _them?"

"Well, of course we did – they are your family, after all, and since you're using your father's insurance, under St. Mary's rules, that means we had legal obligation to tell him when something like this happened –"

"You could have _asked."_

Pause. Frown, brown eyes looking up to meet hostile red ones.

"Gil, I'm not quite sure you understand how our policies work –"

"Oh, don't worry, doctor, I understand, I fucking _understand._ There's stuff about confidentiality, isn't there? Patient rights and informed consent, all that jazz about being nice and respectful and shit, which generally means being considerate enough to fucking _ask_ before you hand out sensitive shit to another who fucking asks –"

"Gil, that's not quite how –"

"Oh, of course not – forgot, didn't I? That's how it works for other people, _normal _people – but not people like me, of fucking course not, not for crazy people. Because crazy people can't be trusted, can't fucking think or even make decisions, not when we're two steps away from throwing ourselves out windows or killing someone – better then to just fucking dope and lock us all up, easier that way to pretend we're not real fucking people –"

"Gilbert, I think I should I call a nurse –"

"What, so they can stick a fucking needle into me, dope me up until all the crazy is gone and I'm nice and drooling and fucking cooperative? Give me a couple of pills, shazoom, there you are sir, just like brand-new – and this is for psychoticism, and this is for irresponsibility, and this is for being a fuck-up in every degree – because I say fucking _no,_ fuck the nursesandfuck their miracle medicine_, _fuck youand_ fuck everything –_"

* * *

><p>Bright lights. The smell of antiseptic: lingering traces etched in cotton and skin.<p>

Ahead, a PowerPoint presentation stretched large, the tired biology professor explicating unhelpfully, descriptions of words formulas meanings that defused into nothing but amorphous data in the echoes of the lecture hall. In the echoes of the lecturer's reedy voice, the _scritch-scratch _of pen against paper, the rapid-fire click-clacking of computer keys.

And in the back, Matthew – pencil slipping out of hand, falling half asleep from exhaustion and sleep deprivation – drifts in between consciousness, his thoughts of ionic bonds and checkered pills and the time until St. Mary's visiting hours.

* * *

><p>Notes:<p>

Eskalith is the name of medicine with lithium carbonate that's often used to treat bipolar.

A mixed state is exactly what it sounds like, a state in which there are both symptoms of both high (racing thoughts, impulsiveness, etc) and low states (irritability, morbidity, etc).

Translations:

Since bilingual families often get this weird mix of English/other foreign language, there was a lot of German/Denglisch here, for which I owe much thanks to idonotevenknow at tumblr for kindly offering to help with and for generally being a sweetheart at large ;u; Any mistakes are all my fault, not hers, and if you spot anything that needs to be fixed, please tell me!

Spanish

si quieres – if you want

French:

quoi = what

ensemble = together

_deux ans = _two years

et tout ce temps = and all that time

alors porquoi = then why

German:

stillhalten = stay still

wie oft muss ich dir sagen = how many times do I have to tell you

Es war nicht _meine_ Schuld = it's not my fault

ob it's fair oder nicht = if it's fair or not.

Was matters ist das your Vater worries, that he works late Nacht, because he wants to buy gutes food für you und Luddy, drive you to Schule und von all deinen Schulclubs, damit you can go to eine gute Schulen und get einen guten Job, not pick fights mit anyone – What matters is that your father worries, that he works late night because he wants to buy good food for you and Luddy drive you to school and from all your schoolclubs, so that you can go to a good school and get a good job, not pick fights with anyone

du weißt that isn't true, oder? = you know that isn't true, right?

mein kleiner Sodat = my little soldier

dein Vater = your father

And as always, thanks so much for reading so far – you're all fantastic and deserve only the best in life!


	19. Sooner than Later

"What do you mean, we're not allowed in?!"

"I'm sorry, sir," the pink-haired secretary says, nervously glancing around to see if anyone is watching, "that was the patient's request – he doesn't want any visitors, Doctor Leonard told me so himself –"

"No visitors?" Francis asks, voice suddenly very quiet, very soft. "Bien. Vraiment. We're his friends, we brought him in the ER just the other day, mais _je suppose_," he says, voice rising, "that just makes us _visitors _–"

"Francis!" Antonio cries, voice just short of a shout as he grips Francis's arm, lowering his voice as he sees the watching crowds. "Calm down, mi amigo – I'm sorry, about this, miss," he says, flashing a quick smile at the secretary, "he isn't usually like this – the stress, though, the last few days have been hard, tú sabes, and Francis has never been good with hospitals –"

"He doesn't want any visitors," Francis says, voice rising again as he turns to face Antonio, "Antonio, il a dit que he _doesn't want any visitors_ –"

"I know, I know," Antonio says, voice gentle as he drapes an arm around Francis's shoulders, "I don't understand it either, yo sé – come on then, let's go back home, I think we all need a drink after today. Here, miss," he says, turning and scrawling his number on the top of a pad of sticky notes, "this is my number. Antonio Carriedo Fernandez," he says, quickly scribbling that on the side, "call me if Gil changes his mind, alright?"

"Ah – of course," the secretary says, blinking as she takes the number. "Callie Blackstone," she begins, "I mean, I know it's on my name tag, but –"

But Antonio was already walking away, murmuring consoling words as he steers a shaking Francis away.

Callie Blackstone watches him for a moment, then sighs, peels off the sticky note and tucks it inside her purse.

"He likes animals and rom-coms."

"Huh?" Callie says, looking around.

"Yeah," Matthew says, nodding as he watches Antonio leave. "Telenovelas, too – sappier the better. If you want to call, two to seven is best. I don't think you should get your hopes too high, though," he continues, "Antonio's got a lot on his plate right now, so I doubt he's in the mood for anything serious right now."

He falls silent for a while, quietly watching Antonio pat a shaking Francis on the back. It was a strange sight, seeing Francis, normally the epitome cool and composed, so deeply shaken; under normal circumstances, it would have been more than enough to throw Matthew off-balance, but with all the surreal events that had happened in the last few days, he only feels a dull perturbation at the sight, worry worn down by sheer weariness.

"Here," Matthew says, abruptly turning and handing Callie a package, "give this to Gil, okay?"

And, turning around, he walks over to where Antonio and Francis are sitting, where he is needed.

* * *

><p>At the door, someone knocks.<p>

"Come in."

The door creaks open, and Dr. Leonard enters, all dazzling smiles and white lab coat as he pulls out a chair.

"Hello, Gil," he says, sitting down and pulling out his clipboard.

There is no response, but Dr. Leonard – for his part – does not seem to notice.

"Good news, today – I've talked to your father, and it seems like your new insurance still covers your old psychiatrist, so you can probably go back to her after you're all cleared to check out of here. Exciting, right?"

"Yeah."

"Isn't it, though? Of course, that's once we settle the details, make sure we've got a good follow-up plan and that the medicine is working properly, but it's still something to look forward to, anyways. Speaking of medicine, how are you feeling? The nurses tell me the new medicine is working quite well, but I'd just like to confirm that for myself – no dizziness or sleepiness or any other side effects?"

"No."

"Are you s–"

"_Yes."_

"Ah. Alright, then."

Silence, for a moment, as pen scratched familiarly on paper.

Moving over, Doctor Leonard takes out his stethoscope, checks heart rate and blood pressure.

"All fine," he says, smiling as he puts his instruments away. "You should be fine to leave once we have the details figured out. I'll be seeing you tomorrow, then."

Gilbert gives no response. Giving him a brief smile, Doctor Leonard puts away his clipboard and stands up, walks toward the door –

"Oh!" he says, turning around mid-step. "Another thing, before I leave. Your friends came again today."

"Oh."

"We couldn't let them in, of course, but they brought you another package – Janice should bring it up during mail time. Thoughtful of them, isn't it? To come over and bring things every few days."

"Yeah."

A silence.

Doctor Leonard cocks his head, blinks behind his glasses.

"Out of curiosity," he begins slowly, "can I ask you why you won't have any visitors?"

"Don't want any."

"Ah."

A brief silence.

"The thing is," Doctor Leonard begins again, "I mean, from all angles, they would seem to quite supportive people – and while I can't claim to understand all the intimacies of your personal situation, given what I've seen, it seems rather cool for you to refuse to allow anyone to visit you –"

"I _said_, I don't want any –"

"But _why? _That's the question, Gil, and I'm not asking this as your doctor or someone paid to take care of you, only because I want to _know. _Is it perhaps that you're worried they'd be angry with you? Your friends, upset or maybe disappointed because you didn't tell them earlier? Or is it, perhaps, that you don't want them to see you like this? Because you –"

"God, you're a nosy dick, aren't you?"

"I'm a doctor, Gil – work long enough here, and you'll be one, too. It's practically a job requirement. Was I right on any of it, though?"

No answer.

"I see," Doctor Leonard says softly, eyes sharp behind his glasses. "That's understandable, of course – we see in many patients, especially the ones whose conditions happen to be more mental instead of physical. But Gil, you're going back to school right after leaving, and so you do realize you're going to see them again, don't you? That you'll have to deal with the fact of their knowing?"

"I _told _you, I don't want to see anyone right now."

"Of course," Doctor Leonard agrees, a small, sad smile playing at his lips. "And ultimately, of course, it's your choice whether to not see them now or not – but do remember that once you leave St. Mary's, you _will _have to see them again. And personally – not as your doctor as a medical professional – just what I, as someone who's lived a few decades longer than you, would personally feel in your situation," he says as he closes the door, "I think that sooner is better than later."

* * *

><p>Matthew is in the middle of a biology lecture, Professor Sanders droning on about potassium and ion imbalances, when gets the text.<p>

Glancing up to make sure that Sanders wasn't looking in his direction, Matthew takes out his phone from his pocket, quickly reads the message under the table.

_Mattie – Callie called today. She says we can visit this afternoon _

_– Antonio_

Matthew stares at the white screen for a moment, the message's words slowly sinking into his sleep-deprived and biology-saturated brain – _today, Callie says, _and _this afternoon _playing in a uncomprehending loop –_ Callie says, today, this afternoon, Callie says, this afternoon, this afternoon, this – _

This afternoon?

This afternoon.

Right.

This afternoon, which – since Francis finished classes at three – meant they'd be at the subway no more than a half-hour after, meaning that he'd have to get the dorm care package together before three-twenty, sushi from Kiku and baklava from Herakles, pastries and bubble tea Mei Hua bought from the local Canto bakery and the nearly unpalatable ginseng chicken soup Yao, their RA, had insisted on making –

This afternoon. This afternoon.

Three-thirty.

* * *

><p>Four sharp, and they find door three thirty-two, knock on weathered wood.<p>

There is a short pause on the other side, the sounds of a conversation coming to an abrupt halt before Gil's voice, on the other side of the door, says, "come in."

And they did: Francis, the shadows under his eyes a sharp contrast to his immaculate clothes; Antonio, all over-brightness and blindingly sunny smiles; and finally, Matthew, carrying a brightly-wrapped parcel as he trails in behind the other two.

"Hola, Gil!" Antonio says, beaming as he walks in. "And hello to you too, Ludwig, Mr. Beilschmidt!"

Gilbert's father – or at least the man Matthew assumes is Gilbert's father, a tall, stoic-looking man with long blonde hair – nods, and next to him, Ludwig says, "hello, Antonio."

"If we're getting all friendly-like, guess that's my cue to join," Gilbert says, from his place on the hospital bed. "Hi." His face does not change expression.

"Hola a ti también, Gil!" Antonio says, jumping on the end on the bed. "Heard you were going to be out of here in a few days," Antonio says, grinning as he smoothed the blankets under him. "Good news, yes? Of course, I think you've got quite a bit of work to catch up on – finals coming up, mi amigo! Don't know about you, but _I'm _not ready for a week full of tests yet –"

"We're not intruding, non?" Francis asks very quietly, cutting Antonio off as Gilbert's father and brother stand up. "You weren't in a middle of something important pour le moment, étaient-ils?"

"No," Ludwig says, shaking his head as he puts on his jacket, "we were just about to leave, as it is –"

"Are you sure?" Antonio asks, near-jumping from the bed, all apologetic mortification and frantically waving hands. "Si es así, we can come again later –"

"No," Mr. Beilschimdt says, voice lightly accented as he speaks for the first time, shaking his head. "It's fine. We've been here long enough. Gilbert," he says, turning briefly to his son, "wir werden dies später noch fertig besprechen."

"Ja, Vati," Gilbert says, voice unaffected as he looks away from his father's eyes. "Bis später," he says, raising a hand shortly, before lowering it again.

The door closed.

"Aah," Antonio says slowly, glancing nervously from the door to Gilbert. "You guys weren't in the middle of something, were you?"

"Not really," Gilbert says, shrugging. "There are chairs," he says, waving at the newly-emptied seats where his family had been sitting, "you guys can sit down or whatever. Sorry I can't do much, they won't letting me out of this fucking room without a nurse or someone following me, it's like I'm five all over again."

"That's alright," Antonio says, pulling up a chair. "It's only a few days anyways, ¿no?"

"I guess."

"¡Sí! So it won't be so bad," Antonio says, smiling as he leans forward, "you'll be back soon, and it'll be like nothing ever happened – you haven't missed much. Besides finals, things have been pretty well, por lo demás," he says, stretching back in his chair. "CAS was giving out free hot chocolate the other day, it was actually pretty good, I should have you saved some – oh, y if you were worried about Gilbird, he's fine; Mattie's been feeding him, y está haciendo bien – Michelle too, y Lovi hasn't insulted me in almost a week – bien, to be true, we haven't seen each other for almost a week, too – I should call and see if he wants to get coffee or something sometime, I hope he won't get too annoyed, even if he is taaaaan lindo when he's angry, como un gatito quien piensa que es un tigre– bien, I _know_ I shouldn't tell him that, would probably only make him angry, pero, pues. He says to tell you to get better," Antonio says, voice softer as he calms down, "y Michelle, también. And all the guys Alpha Phi, y the kids in math, y aún the bouncers at Zeitgeist – everyone misses you, can't wait for you to come back –"

"Do they know?"

"Know what?" Antonio asks, blinking in surprise.

"Do they know," Gilbert repeats, looking down at the sheets. "Why I'm here."

"Well," Antonio begins, then stops, looks to Matthew.

"No one at Greenwich knows," Matthew says, shaking his head. "I don't think anyone else outside of us knows, either."

"Oh," Gilbert says, some of the tension visibly lifting from his shoulders. "That's good, then."

"Yes," Antonio says gently, "I guess it is. Aunque, I was wondering, mi amigo, why didn't you tell us, tampoco –"

"What is it, interrogate the sick person day or something? You know you're the second fucking person to ask me that question this week?"

"No," Antonio says gently, "I didn't. Pero, de nuevo, this is the first chance I've had to talk to you in a week."

"Yeah." A pause. "Sorry about that."

"It's fine," Antonio says, words almost automatic –

"Non," Francis says, cutting him off, "non, it's _not._"

They freeze, turn to stare at Francis.

"We've known you for two years," Francis continues, still glaring at Gilbert with unnatural ferocity, "nous connaissons depuis _deux ans_, broken in bars and crashed parties ensemble, done a hundred things that were illegal. Puis, I want to know, avec tout ça, why you didn't tell us anything au cours de _two fucking years_ –"

"Look, it was nothing against you, okay?" Gilbert says, crossing his arms and looking away. "You're not my therapist, I don't have to tell you my life story when I meet you, and honestly, it didn't seem like that big of a deal –"

"Not a big deal? You nearly _died_ –"

"Okay, so I was wrong, alright?! I thought I fucking could handle it –"

"Handle it?" Francis cries. "Et _comment, _exactement, were you doing that – by not taking your medications, by refusing to tell anyone? Mon Dieu, quoi tu pensais, what did you think you were _doing_ –"

"Maybe I was thinking that I fucking liked you guys, huh? That I liked you guys and doing shit with you and that I didn't want to be brain-dead all the time instead of only half of it, boring you guys until you only stayed with me out of pity –"

Francis hit him.

"Francis!" Antonio cries, rushing and grabbing a hold of Francis's arm. "What do you think you're doing –"

"How dare you," Francis whispers, "how dare you think that we would think that, how dare you think we would do that, _comment oses-tu_ –"

"Francis," Antonio hisses, warning mingled with worry as he pulls him back, "stop talking, _por favor_ –"

"We're your friends! Do you really think we would worried about something like whether or not you were fun to be around when it was making you sick – Mon Dieu, est ce que tu penses vraiment? Penses-tu que we're that shallow, penses-tu que we'd abandon you the moment you stopped providing us with amusement –"

"Francis!" Antonio cries, and this time Matthew joins him, takes a hold of Francis's other arm, "please, just please, calm down –"

"We're your friends," Francis shouts, "aurais dû savoir mieux, you should have known we would have cared less about this. You should have _known that_. Aurais dû," and Matthew is startled to see tears in Francis's eyes, "fucking _trusted_ us."

There is a silence then, as Francis glares at Gilbert and Gilbert, wide-eyed, stares back.

Slowly, Gilbert looks away, lowers his eyes.

"Sorry," he murmurs, crossing his arms as he looks at the ground.

"Oui, bien," Francis says, looking a split second away from hitting Gilbert again, "you should be."

And, wrenching himself from Antonio and Matthew's grips, he stalked out, the door slamming behind him as he left.

"Francis!" Antonio cries after him. "_Espere_ – come on, let's talk about this – I'm so, so sorry about this," he says, glancing pleadingly at Gilbert as he stood at the door entrance, "it's been a rough few days, estoy seguro he doesn't mean any of it –"

"It's fine," Gilbert says, nodding briefly. "Go find him."

"Are you –"

"Yes."

Antonio bites his lip but, with one last apologetic look at Gilbert, nods and leaves.

"Well," Gilbert says softly as the door slams close, more to himself than to Matthew, "looks like I fucked that up, huh?"

"No," Matthew says quietly, "you d –"

"Oh no, that's okay," Gilbert says, still not looking at Matthew as he raises a hand, "you don't have to fucking lie because you want to spare my feelings or something. I'm not that weak," he says, still not looking at Matthew as he raises a hand, clenching and unclenching before lowering it again, "I can take it."

Silence, for a few moments.

"He's just worried, that's all," Matthew says finally, very quietly. "Francis was really worried when we found you, and so he's only angry because he was so scared."

"Is that so."

"Probably," Matthew says, shrugging. "You've known him longer than I have."

"Yeah," Gilbert says quietly. "Guess that just means I really should have told him, huh. Oh, God fuck, I really _did _fuck things up, didn't I – I wouldn't be surprised if he doesn't want to talk to me for the rest of the year –"

"He will. He'll forgive you."

"Yeah? And what makes you so sure of that?"

"Because," Matthew says, "that's what friends do."

Silence.

"You know," Gilbert says after a while, staring at his blankets, "my last roommate applied for a transfer after a month."

"Oh?"

"Yeah," Gilbert says, nodding. "Complaints about coming back drunk every other night and having parties at three in the morning, either bringing home fifteen people or lying in bed all day and refusing to do laundry – stuff like that. Weird sleep habits, stuff like that – I think he filled out a whole page on the complaint form, guy really, _really_ didn't like me. That, or I was just a really shitty roommate," Gilbert says, shrugging. "Sorry about that."

"You're not a bad roommate."

"Yeah? Looks like you're the only one in Manhattan who thinks so, but thanks for that, roomie."

"You really aren't, though," Matthew protests. "I mean, your sleep patterns might be a little strange at first, but they're not that bad, and you're a lot of fun to be around – and even besides that, you're really loyal, and friendly to everyone, and you always try to make sure everyone's having fun – and I don't care what the last guy said, you're _not. _You're the best roommate _I've _ever had. You're," and he hesitates for a moment before saying it, "the best friend I've had in a long time."

Gilbert doesn't say anything for a while, and Matthew, still flushing over the sappiness of what he had just said, doesn't, either.

"It's the eighth, isn't it?" Gilbert says finally, looking at Matthew. "Don't you have finals to go study for or something?"

"I can stay –"

"Nah," Gilbert says, shaking his head. "It's getting late, it's going to get cold soon and there's really nothing to do here, unless you want to listen to the schizophrenics screaming next door. Tell everyone thanks for me, and anytime Kiku wants his games back, they're right under Gilbird's cage. Anyways," Gilbert says, glancing at the clock, "the next line should be by soon, you should try to catch that."

"Are you sure?" Matthew asks quietly.

"Yeah," Gilbert says. "Don't worry, it's boring, but I'll be fine. I'll see you back at the dorm in a few days or so."

Matthew hesitates for a moment, then nods.

"Here," he says, handing Gilbert the brightly-wrapped care package, "this is for you."

"Oh."

"From the dorm. They don't know, but they heard you were in the hospital and wanted to get you something."

"That's nice of them."

"Yeah," Matthew says. "It is."

And they sit there a while, neither saying anything for a while.

"Well," Matthew says finally, standing up, "I guess I'll see you later, then."

Gilbert doesn't say anything, only nods, and suddenly he looks so _small _against the hospital white, face ashen and skin near the color of his sheets that Matthew hesitates for a moment, contemplates staying there and saying something, anything –

But he doesn't, only (hating himself as he does it, hating hating himself yet still moving) walks away, quietly closing the door as he leaves.

* * *

><p>Notes:<p>

Mei Hua = Taiwan (I don't think she has a canon human name, so I took the liberty of giving her one that means "Beautiful Flower." Cheesy, I know ^^;)

Translations (German done with the help of my lovely friend Aki):

**French:**

bien. Vraiment - well. Is that so.

mais _je suppose - _but I suppose

il a dit que - he said that

pour le moment, étaient-ils - right then, were you?

nous connaissons depuis _deux ans - _we've known you for two years

avec tout ça - with all that

au cours de – during

Et _comment, _exactement - and how, exactly

quoi tu pensais - what were you thinking

_comment oses-tu_ - how dare you

est ce que tu penses vraiment? - is that what you really think?

Penses-tu que - do you think that

aurais dû savoir mieux - you should have known better

aurais dû - you should have

**Spanish**

tú sabes - you know

Hola a ti, tambien - hello to you also

Si es así - if so

por lo demás – otherwise

taaaaan lindo - sooo cute

como un gatito quien piensa que es un tigre - like a kitten who thinks it's a tiger

aunque – although

tampoco – neither

Pero, de nuevo - but, then again,

y está haciendo bien - and he's doing well

espere – wait

estoy seguro - I'm sure

**German:**

Bis später - see you later

Wir werden dies später noch fertig besprechen = we will discuss this later (Aki)


	20. New York No-Grade-Inflation University

It turns cold the week Gilbert comes back, the streets icing over overnight and snow descending on New York City like a blanket, covering the streets in white softness. And in the first hours of the snowstorm, when the streets have not yet been still cleared and no pedestrians dare venture out into the howling wind, all of a sudden, the city is silent; all of a sudden, the city is still.

Inside the student lounge of Greenway Hotel, however, it is impossible to tell any of this. There – between two shoddy sofas, several beanbags, and an Xbox almost as old as the building itself – the lights and noise of an impromptu party gone wonderfully right drown out any indication that the city outside had changed.

"Shut _up," _Mei Hua gasps in disbelief as she hits Gilbert, sprawled out on a moldy couch brought in a few days before the cold front had hit, "they so did _not –"_

"Yeah?" Gilbert asks, crossing his legs and reaching for a beer. "How would _you_ know? I could have, you know –"

"One," Mei says, pulling herself back into a sitting position and raising a finger, "because you were in _the hospital _when that happened, you idiot, and two," she says, smiling as laughter erupts around them, "because Delta Theta Epsilon would have nothing to do with _you, _not if it was a choice between slow, death of a thousand cuts, toenails being pulled off death."

"Harsh," Gilbert comments, looking only mildly offended as he brings the beer bottle to his lips. "What, didn't think I could sneak in or something?"

"Oh, shut up," Mei says, rolling her eyes as she tucks her feet underneath her, "like you actually would. All bark and no bite, Gilly, all bark and – no – bite."

Gilbert sticks out his tongue, but says else as he reaches for what Matthew – sitting behind his roommate, nursing a Coke as he tries to revise an English essay – cannot help but notice is his third drink of the night.

"What were you even in there for, anyways?" Pravat Chaya – Mei's friend, a Thai kid part of what Gilbert dubbed the 'Asian invasion' that had descended upon Greenway that snowy evening – asked, looking up briefly from his in-progress Mario Kart game and consequently flying off the track, courtesy of a hard hit from a Green Shell.

"Strep," Gilbert says easily, waving a hand as Pravat returns to his game, a wary eye on the Vietnamese girl next to him as his hands move over his controller. "Should have got out earlier, but the doctors were worried that this," gesturing to his arm, where the dim light cast pale skin in even whiter tones, "might make it come up again. Complications and that shit – though they probably just wanted an excuse to have a good test subject," he says, rolling his eyes as he reaches for another beer (_four, _Matthew mentally notes, wincing between fixing tenses and punctuation). "Don't get melanin-freaks as attractive as me every day, you know."

"Oh, come on," Mei scoffs, rolling her eyes as she reaches for a beer in spite of Kiku's vaguely disapproving glance, "don't get too full of yourself, Gilly – as if anyone would want to get in _your _pants that much."

"Says the girl with K-pop posters plastered over her wall," Gil shoots back, popping the cap off his drink. "Like, I don't know about you, but at least I don't like I'm in the middle of constant a gender identity crisis."

"G Dragon is ten times the man you'll ever be," Mei says, sniffing as she leans back in the chair, "and don't you ever insult him in front of me again, Gilbert Johann Beilschmidt, or if you do, I swear by God and all that is good –"

"You'll what?" Gilbert shoots back. "Make me listen to _Lollipop _on repeat for the rest of the semester?"

"Hey, fuck off, that was a _fantastic _song –"

"Yeah, yeah," Gilbert says, rolling his eyes, as he stands up, "keep saying that, Mei. God," he says, walking towards the ice cooler, "if this turns into another K versus J pop argument, I'm going to need more than just another drink –"

Five. That would make it five drinks, then. And it wasn't as though he hadn't seen his roommate drink more, five was hardly going to get Gilbert Beilschmidt wasted – but five drinks was getting close, wasn't it? And after five came six, then seven, then eight, nine –

Quietly closing his laptop, Matthew stands up and follows his roommate.

"Hey, Gil," Matthew says quietly from behind Gilbert, trying for as much discretion as possible in a room of ten people, "are you sure you should be – that is, it's just, I mean, what with everything Doctor Leonard said and all –"

"Yeah, yeah, okay, sure_," _Gilbert says, leaning down to take a bottle out, "but, _come on, _Mattie," he says, rolling his eyes as he stands up, "what's the harm in a beer? I mean, it's not exactly like I'm going to kneel over and have a seizure the second I take a sip of alcohol, right?" which might have been true, Matthew wanted to say, but was nonetheless negated by the fact that five beers did not constitute 'a sip of alcohol' –

"So chill," Gilbert says, shrugging his shoulder as he pops the cap off his drink, "I'm not going to collapse from alcohol poisoning or whatever anytime soon, so no need to keep some sort of stalkery 1984 watch on me 24/7."

"Gil –"

"Yeah, yeah," Gilbert says, waving a hand as he walks away, drink in hand, "don't you have an essay or something due tomorrow, anyway?"

* * *

><p>And so Matthew did – a final essay which, even if he had a solid A in the class and the solid favor of his professor, was worth 20% of his grade and therefore not to be brushed away, no matter how many irresponsible roommates he had. And so Matthew does it, locking himself in his room away from the noise and distraction (though he could still hear it, paper-thin walls no match for college students celebrating their last days of pre-exam freedom), typing and retyping phrases as outside the door, city trunks begin shoveling the snow and his dorm mates got unhealthily, dangerously drunk.<p>

He finishes early, a few hours before the deadline and be; unlike Lovino, who cursed and swore over the right choice of words, essay writing had never been much of a problem for Matthew, and so – unlike his belabored classmate, whose profanity-strewn grousing was filling his Facebook page –Matthew clicks save at nine pm, sends the file to Professor Tino minutes after.

There's not much to do about after that, really.

He checks Facebook a more few times (two hours to the deadline, and Lovino is still grousing about the essay in typical Lovino fashion), glances perfunctorily at his half-done math study guide, and flips half-heartedly through his biology notes before sighing (osmosis apparently a process confined to absorbing water and not knowledge), closing his book, and changing for bed.

Even then, in the dark, it is hard to sleep. The walls are thin, and his dorm mates, with Yao temporarily stranded in Chinatown and all the other RAs too busy between managing their charges and actually studying, are more boisterous than would be expected from students with finals steadily coming. Lying on his bed, eyes closed as if to ward away the noise, Matthew hears laughter from outside his door, the sounds of shouting and music and decided personal irresponsibility coupled with reckless gambling with health filtering through his walls – and forces himself to ignore it, to roll over and go to sleep.

* * *

><p>He wakes up, half-blearily and wholly unwillingly, several hours later.<p>

It is dark, dark and blurry as Matthew clutches at his blanket, blinking through the blur of glasses-less vision at the half-hidden figure in the room.

"Hey," Gilbert's voice says, raising one hand from the direction of the closet. "Didn't mean to wake you up."

"S'okay," Matthew murmurs, sitting up and fiddling for his glasses. "Wha-uuuat-t time is it?" he asks, covering his mouth to stifle the rest of the yawn.

"Too early for you to go to be up, that's for sure," Gilbert says, yanking out a jacket and a pair of socks. "Chem prof's a bitch, making me redo all the shit I missed while I was out, not taking any of that shit about medical emergencies that's fucking college policy, what an ass –it's balls early, roomie," he says, zipping up his jacket. "Catch your sleep while you can."

"There's still some bread in the fri_iiiiug_-dge," Matthew murmurs as he settles all-too-willing back into bed, "and peanut butter, if you want it –"

"What are you, Antonio?" Gilbert chides, the eye-roll evident even in the dark. "Yeah, mom, thanks, I know – what else you going to do, tell me not to forget my coat?"

"_Don't_ forget your coat," Matthew adds, half-smiling into his blanket, "or your keys, or your meds –"

"Yeah, I _know," _Gilbert says, voice suddenly turning flat as he turns and does, indeed, grab his coat. "Look, roomie, I'm flattered and all you're so worrying about me, but when I need a babysitter," he says, zipping the coat up and shaking on his boots, "I'll tell you, okay? I'll take the fucking pills when I get back – if Doctor Leo asks, tell him I've got a chem lab to make up in ten."

Matthew bites his lip, but says nothing as Gilbert leaves the room.

* * *

><p>"No, no, <em>no<em>," Michelle says later that afternoon, putting Lovino's paper down with a sigh, "that's _not _how we're going start our report – are you trying to make us fail on purpose, or have you just never learned to write a group presentation in your life?"

"Fuck you," Lovino says, raising one middle finger up as he leans back in his chair, taking a bite of pizza as he puts his feet on the table, "it's called being a goddamn architecture major – we're all fucking lone wolves there, okay, wouldn't catch Wright dead working with Gaudi on a 'group project.' That's why the Rand chick is so hung up on us – venture capitalism and Howard Roark and the evils of collectivism and all that shit. "

"Yeah, well," Michelle huffs, "_guess what: _Wright and Gaudi didn't go to New York Fucking We-Don't-Do-Grade-Inflation-Here University, okay? And I don't want to fail, okay? Mattie," pointing at Matthew, who was scourging the Pizzeria Napoletana box for any hidden breadsticks, "doesn't want to fail either, alright? So if you," finger moving to Lovino, "don't get your fucking shit together, I swear to God, Lovino Vargas, you have my god-given promise I will fuck you up –"

"Little neurotic today, aren't we?" Lovino says, tossing his crust in the trash can across the room and reaching for another slice. "What, someone do badly on their Calc final or something?"

"That's none of your business," Michelle snaps, glaring at him as she stands up, "but this project is worth _twenty-five percent _of our final grade, and I swear to God, if we do badly on it, then –"

"Then what?" Lovino asks, throwing his hands in his air. "It's one fucking class, Shells, there's no need to be such a shrill neurotic bitch about it–"

"Neurotic?" Michelle shrieks, voice going up several octaves as she slams her hands on the table. "When I helped organize half the experiments in the place and when I'm the one doing ninety percent of the work here while you sit here and can't even get a fucking PowerPoint together, you're calling me _neurotic –_"

And so it went.

Matthew, having managed to find one last breadstick, doesn't pay them much attention: it's the same routine he'd seen so many times before, after all, a long, rehearsed act of angry reaction and over-reaction. Admittedly, the places were switched this time, Lovino in the face of finals surprisingly calm for once – a Christmas miracle come early, ruined only by the bad luck of Michelle coming down with a bad case of pre-finals hysteria.

Personally, Matthew agrees with Lovino, thinks that Michelle is overreacting as well, but, as always, he doesn't interfere.

(What, after all, was failing one class when your roommate was running around, not showing up at meals and staying up late nights to study hopped up on a cocktail of drugs – taking caffeine pills to stay awake, taking alcohol to fall asleep, taking weed to focus during tests, taking this and that and everything except the medicine he had _actually _been prescribed or an iota of Matthew's advice –

But because he doesn't know how, because he's tried every kind of coaxing short of coercion_, _Matthew – even though it disgusts him, makes him sick at how cowardly and fearful and utterly _useless_ he was – as always, doesn't interfere.)

* * *

><p>But they don't <em>fail,<em> do quite well, actually, to the great surprise of Michelle and her ominous forecasts, who promptly buys them all hot chocolate to celebrate afterwards and doesn't even rise to the bait when Lovino complains about the quality of the marshmallows in his, only reaches over and pays for another cup.

And slowly, that is how it happens: all the worry and anxiety of fall finals ebbing as the finals are finished, the essays written and the exams – if not aced – at least passed with higher grades than thought possible, until the exams are all over and it is the last day before Christmas break.

All the suitcases are packed, by that time, the plane tickets booked and secret Santas exchanged, everyone already ready to leave for warm hearths and home-cooked meals, when Antonio and Francis appear in the doorway, Antonio eager-faced as always and Francis – if still slightly cross, at least talking to Gilbert again – and Antonio asks, "want to go out tonight?"

Matthew doesn't, not really. But Gilbert is going and Gilbert is still not Okay, has been doing and drinking everything the doctor said he should not (and Matthew knows, he checks the fridge every morning, feeling so terribly creepy and invasive as he does it but somehow unable to not, unable to stop) – and so he has no choice but to say yes, say yes and follow after them into dark and snowy streets.

The frat house – Alpha Phi Zeta, just a few streets down and a few quick shortcuts there – is already full, post-finals packed full of over-stressed students ready to release the tension of the last days with some time-tested drinking and debauching. It's a busy place, all loud music and the heavy scent of whiskey vodka booze booze booze pervading the air, and within minutes, Gilbert has slipped away within it, mixed and mingled into seeming thin air.

Which, honestly, shouldn't bother Matthew that much – shouldn't because it was weird and stalkerish and more codependent than his textbook cases to worry this much when it was Gilbert's life, really, his life to live and ruin if he wished, not Matthew's responsibility or fault if anything happened, if anything went wrong –

But. But but _but. _As Antonio bites his lip and Francis, after a shrug, returns to hitting on various scantily-clad members of the party, male and female alike, Matthew – like a broken record running the same worn tracks and patterns – searches through the crowds for his roommate, pushes through jostling bodies to find Gilbert.

(Because really, in the end, what other choice did he have?)

* * *

><p>Matthew finally finds Gilbert towards the tail end of the party, perched on one of the beat-up, whiskey-scented couches talking to some sorority girls: mouth going a mile a minute, charisma turned up to eleven, and completely, utterly trashed.<p>

"Gil!" Matt says, voice cracking just a little in spite of himself as he strides towards his roommate. "I've been looking all over, are you alr –"

"Oh, hey, Mattie," Gil says, easy grin belying the near-somersault over the couch he does when he turns around. "Lea, Erika, that's Mattie – Mattie," he says, "that's Erika, Lea –"

"Your roooooommate, huh?" one of the girls – a redhead, heavy on cleavage and low on clothing – says, giggling as she waves at him; from the heavy scent of whiskey on her, she was as drunk, if not drunker, than Gilbert. "Didn't tell me he was so pppp_reee_tty, too_ooo,"_ she says, grin lopsidedly at Gilbert as she lays her head on his shoulder, "hiiii, pretty boy," she says, waving to Matthew again, "hiiii –"

Something clenches in his stomach, then, something perhaps the result of weeks of worry and post-test stress rising as Matthew smiles stiffly at the girls in front of him –

"Hi," he says.

Then, stalking forward, Matthew grabs Gilbert by the wrist and – with a resolve he himself did not expect – pulls him away.

* * *

><p>"Roomie," Gilbert says, finally wrenching his hand from Matthew several rooms later, "what the <em>fuck <em>was _that_ –"

"Look, Gil, I'm sorry," Matthew says, words hushed but still rapid-motion, "but you're drunk, okay, and I know you're going to say you've been drunk before, but it's late, you should be home –"

"Yeeah?" Gilbert asks, leaning back. "This what this about? Staying past my bedtime and not drinking my vegetables? What, going to start telling me to eat my vegetables now? You know," he says, and he has the audacity to smile then, the nerve to fuck-ing _smile_, "you really are turning into 'Tonio, aren't you –"

"I'm serious!" Matthew cries, nearly shouting in spite of himself, attracting attention in spite of himself and (suddenly, surprisingly) not caring. "You don't understand, you know how you looked – and what if the alcohol does something, reacts with the meds or something, mixes and accidentally poisons you or makes the lithium stop working –"

"Look, Mattie," Gilbert sighs, smile tight as he leans forward, eyes over-bright and every pore smelling of alcohol, "you really, really need to fucking learn to _relax."_

And that was the last straw.

And Matthew opens his mouth to protest, to argue or say something in response, force some sense into his roommate or merely just to give him a piece of his mind –

And that is when Gilbert leans over and kisses him.

* * *

><p>AN: I keep on telling myself I won't write cliffhangers, and then I always do? Ah, well - just mentioning it because I'm starting school next week, but I'll try to keep updating as often as possible! ^^<p>

Pravat Chaya = Thailand (I don't know if there are any popular fan names for him, so I improvised since I'd rather use Hetalia characters instead of OCs. So yes, everyone lives in New York City now)

Ayn Rand = writer who founded the philosophy of objectivism, which is very popular among conservatives. Howard Roark is from _The Fountainhead, _one of her books.

Greenway Hotel is not a real dorm, but takes its name from Greenwich Hotel.


	21. You Can (Not) Redo (try again?)

"And then, Arthur – you know, Mr. Sweater-Vests and stuffy British books guys? – came in, and I thought _oh boy, _this is going to be fun –"

"You know," Matthew's mother comments, pining her steak as she slowly cuts it, "with all the complaining you do about him, I've always wondered why you didn't just ask for a roommate transfer."

(_roommate transfer, like Gil had suggested when they had finally made it back to the dorm, eyes dark as he had opened the door – )_

"I told you, Mom," Alfred replies between a mouth full of chicken –_ "chew," _she admonishes him, and he does, swallowing thickly before continuing – "I _tried, _but the housing was acting screwy every time – but, anyways, he's not so bad –"

"See then?" their father says, beaming. "All's well that ends well – told you no need to worry, anyways!"

"Well, then," she says, smiling slightly, "I guess you're right."

(_that had been after, of course, after the party and before Matthew had found Gilbert at Francis's place, a cup of coffee between his hands and eyes ostensibly averted when Matthew had burst in, clothes still wet with snow and heart beating a million miles each minute -) _

"But yeah," Al says, waving his fork, "then he came in, and I was _soooo _sure he was going to start on us, say something all snooty and English major-like about how uncouth and stuff we looked – but he didn't, just walked in and told me congratulations. Congratulations! Like he'd ever watched football in his life or even gave half a f –"

"_– language –_"

"Ah, c'mon, Mom," Al protests, "what else am I suppose to say – I mean, how else are you supposed to measure concern? 'Sides, Dad swears all the time."

"Principle of the thing," she says, leaning over to kiss their father, "no swearing at the kitchen table until you can buy your own beer – and no, Al, I don't want to hear about all your drunken Friday night stories."

"Sure about that, Mom? I've got some preeetty good ones – although seeing Arthur drunk, _that, _I swear to God, was the most terrifying thing –"

(_it had been snowing then, he thinks – a gentle flurry, fat snowflakes drifting lazily through the air. In the dim streetlamp light, Gilbert's face had been paler than ever as he had turned away, mumbling the words and letting them fall, like fat, heavy snowflakes through the air –) _

"I think I speak for both of us," their father says, smiling indulgently, "when I say that we're sure it is. No need for details, kiddo – out of sight, out of mind, you know?"

"Ah, fine then," Al says, mock pouting. "But you now, that leaves me only half of the stories I could tell, and those even aren't the most interesting ones –"

(_and he had protested, of course, said no of course not how could he _think _that – but even so, despite all his protests and affirmations , all Matthew had gotten in response was a sad, cynical smile –)_

"You've been telling us stories for an hour now, Al," their mother says, smiling indulgently at Alfred, "I think Mattie should have a turn now. Mattie?" she says, turning to him. "How was your semester, dear?"

Matthew blinks, looks up to see both his parents smiling at him.

"Fine," he says, forcing himself to smile, "it was fine."

* * *

><p>"Oh, so is this all for us?" Feliciano cries as they enter, gazing at the crystal chandeliers and gold-sheeted ceiling. "Oh wow, it's all so fancy – hey, papà," he exclaims, turning around as he flits from the oil paintings on the walls, "do you think these are originals, or just reproductions –"<p>

"Reproductions, of course," Mr. Vargas – a tall, fit man whom middle age had not seemed to touch – answers, "did you see the brush strokes in the Alboni? Too many, and too sloppy. Now, come on, Feli," he says, patting the seat next to him, "the soup's nearly here – come sit down, yeah? Although," he says, turning to Gilbert and Ludwig's father, "it _is _a very nice restaurant –I hope it didn't take too much trouble to get it?"

"No, not too much," Gilbert's father says, smiling stiffly. "Besides, it's nearly our tenth Christmas – I thought we ought do something to celebrate the tradition."

"Ah, and it's year to pay, isn't it? Very sneaky, very sneaky," Mr. Vargas says, winking, "making your guest pay for his own dinner –"

"You know we always pay separately."

"_No," _Mr. Vargas corrects, taking a sip of his wine, "I go to pay for us all, and then you insist on splitting the check – so boringly practical, I say," he sighs, "but ah, I suppose that's the way it's always been. Sorry Lovi isn't here," he adds, as the waiter brings a plate of appetizers, "he said he was too busy –"

"That's fine," Gilbert father says. "I hope he feels better." Busy meaning, of course, busy continuing the year-long strike of the annual dinner he'd begun since Ludwig and Feliciano started seeing each other.

(It hadn't bothered Gilbert, of course – in fact, he'd been happier than anyone that his serious little brother had found someone as cheerful and lively as Feliciano. And yet, and yet, and –)

"Ah, well, we can bring him home dessert though, right papà?" Feliciano sings, sitting down and smiling at Mr. Vargas. "Lovi was complaining to me about the dorm food the other day, I think we should bring him some tiramisu or gelato to cheer him up –"

"Ah, is it that bad?" Mr. Vargas asks, laughing. "I know the food in this country has never had a good reputation, but even so, I hope Lovino's not going hungry – he's always been such a picky eater, you know what he was like when he was a kid – what do you think of it, Luddy?" he asks, turning to him. "How do you find the school?"

(And it wasn't like he had anything against people who were into guys, but he had always thought of himself as a solid ladies' man – well, okay, maybe without all the parts the Church disapproved of and without a lot of the actual ladies, but still –)

"It's alright," Luddy says – tall, serious Luddy, so taciturn and ridiculously buff no one had taken seriously him when he first came out; Gilbert himself had laughed his ass off, it had been seemed like a cosmic joke – carefully sipping his water as the waiter brought their entrees. "I would prefer if freshman could opt-out, but I understand why the meal plan is mandatory."

"Ah, well, Luddy and I are moving out next year, right?" Feliciano says, grinning at Ludwig and taking a hold of his arm – God, Gilbert adored the kid and all, but he really needed to keep the bedroom eyes at home. "We've already planned it all out, and we're going to get a nice apartment and we'll have a kitchen and cook our own meals and maybe we could bring Blackie, that would be nice but we still have to check with the manager, but wouldn't that be great, if we could?"

(And besides, he didn't think he _was, _physically attracted to him, that is (still very much a ladies' man in that respect, or was it? He wasn't sure; he didn't know), and then there was _her, _there was that – but even more than all that was the fact that he was _him, _all ragged edges and the wrong words –)

"– and we've going to have our own plates and bathroom and we'll share a bedroom" – God, the kid was almost as much of a motormouth as he was when he was up – was this what other people felt like when he'd been off his meds? _– _"and it's going to be great! It's going to be so much fun, don't you think so, Gil?"

"Mm," Gilbert says, not looking up as he picked at his chicken. "Yeah."

Feliciano blinks.

"Hey, Gil," he says, tilting his head, "are you alright? You've been acting kind of quiet all night – say, did something happen? Did something happen at school? Was it a girl – or, hey, was it your roommate, did you guys get into a fight or –"

"Feli," Gilbert says, voice low, "you're an incredible person and I hate to say this to you, but that is none of your fucking business."

And for a moment, no one says anything, no one _can _say anything, only gape at him with wide, shocked eyes.

"I'm tired," Gilbert says, pushing in his chair. "I think I'm going back home."

"Gilbert!" his father says. "You cannot just – you _will_ –"

"I'm sorry," Gilbert says flatly. "I'm sorry Mr. Vargas and I'm sorry Feli. Is that alright? I'm really tired, Vater," he says, not looking at his father as he turns away, "I'll be my room, okay?"

* * *

><p>It snows, later that night, a light fall that drifts onto the quiet streets. There is a football game going on – prelims for something or the other, apparently – and so his family is glued to the television, first snow excitement lost in the rush of a home team finally doing well.<p>

Matthew, though despite having acquiring a moderate interest in football over the years, stays only for a few moments before he stands up, putting on a coat as he walks outside.

He stands there for a long moments, silently watching the snowflakes drift through the sky.

"Mattie?" his mother calls, opening the sliding door. "Can I come over?"

"Yeah," Matthew says, moving over but not looking up as she sidles next to him.

They stand there for a moment, saying nothing as they both stare at the swirling snow.

"So," she asks, smiling at him, "how's school been, honey?"

"It's been fine."

"Are you sure?" she asks. "Only you know how your father and I worry, sometimes – and you're so much quieter than Al, I haven't heard a word of complaint out of you so far, but that doesn't mean they're not there. Making friends?" she asks, leaning towards him. "Roommate fine, everything all right?"

Matthew thinks of Gilbert, thinks of the look on his face after Matthew had told him it was fine, there was nothing wrong – thinks of how Gilbert had laughed, short and mocking as he opened the door and walked inside –

"Yeah," he says slowly, "yeah, I am – lots of them, actually – and yeah, everything's f –"

_"Mattie," _his mother says gently, placing a hand over his. "Please."

Matthew looks away, bites his lip.

"Well," he says slowly (still not looking at her), "maybe not. Kind of. Yeah."

She waits.

"I mean," he says, waving a hand, "it's nothing big, I've just –"

"Matthew Williams," his mother says, "I was there when you first you found out Santa Claus wasn't real and I was there you got your first college rejection letter – so please, sweetheart," she says, turning to look at him, "tell me: what's wrong?"

Matthew bites his lip, looks down for a moment, and then – slowly – tells her.

* * *

><p>Back in his room, Gilbert puts on Metallica, turns his speakers up to full volume, sits down on a chairs and puts in the loudest, bloodiest video game he can find –<p>

Someone knocks at the door.

Gilbert ignores it, instead concentrates on the screen on front of him and enemy forces that have him surrounded. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Blood splatters onto the screen, red streaks bleeding slowly off of the screen.

"Gil?"

On the screen, one of the snipers manages to hit him, and the screen erupts in a burst of a blood and gunpowder before fading to black. Game over, the flashing letters read on the blank screen, white against black, try again?

The door opens.

Putting his controller down, Gilbert slowly turns around.

"Yeah?" he asks.

Ludwig stands there, all wide shoulders and ridiculous height – Jesus, what had happened to the little brother who'd sat on his shoulders to look at the zebras at the zoo? – tie still unloosened, looking uncomfortable as he stands there, as though waiting for permission to enter.

Gilbert sighs.

"Come on in, Luddy."

He does, sits straight-backed on the edge of Gilbert's bed, dress shoes still untied.

Neither of them say anything, for a while – both, for the moment, too engrossed in the patterns of the carpet.

"So," Gilbert says, breaking the silence, "Vati send you back? Should I be expecting some quality chewing-out when he goes out, or he is going to the go the whole stern-fatherly concern route about responsibility and shit?"

"You know he wouldn't do that."

"Yeah?" Gilbert asks, looking up. "Not to you, obviously, but c'mon Luddy, let's get real here – you're practically every parent's dream child. So what's it gonna be then, huh?" he says, lolling his head to the side to look up at Ludwig. "Concern or a bitch fest about how I should treat guests? Or he is getting into the whole understanding parent thing now, going to try to listen the way the shirks recommend? Come on, give it to me straight – what's the old man want?"

"You shouldn't speak about Vati that way," Ludwig says, looking (bless his heart) faintly scandalized, "you know it isn't true. And, actually," he adds clearing his throat, "Vati's still at the restaurant. I came back by myself."

"Great," Gilbert says, groaning as he throws himself against his chair, "now my little brother's getting in one the pitying act – Jesus, Mother, Mary, am I _really _that pathetic now? What does a guy have to do to catch a break in the pity train?"

"If you want me to criticize you," Ludwig interrupts, shifting on the bed, "I can. I can start with how rude it was to leave in the middle of a meal, or how perhaps how worried Feliciano was that you were angry with him –"

"Thanks," Gilbert says, "that's nice, just lay it right on, salt in the fucking wound, Luddy –"

"– but I don't want to," Ludwig continues, "I don't want to, Gilbert, because I'm worried about you –"

"– great, now we've got a dual resident aboard the disappointment and pity trains – watch out folks, we've got a crowd now – "

"– because," Ludwig says loudly, face reddening slightly as he stares at his large, long hands, "like Vati, I want to know. What," he says, looking up, "is wrong, brother?"

Gilbert says nothing, looks away from Ludwig's gaze.

"Nothing," he answers finally.

"Gilbert –"

"_Nothing," _Gilbert repeats, louder than he should, "nothing's fucking wrong, okay? Everything's fi –"

"Would Francis agree with that?"

Gilbert freezes.

"He didn't –"

"No," Ludwig agrees, "he didn't, and I didn't ask him, either. But that was because I would rather hear it from you."

* * *

><p>– he had ran when it had caught up with him <em>(ran, ran like the coward he was)<em>, stumbled out onto the streets from the party (from yet another thing he had fucked up; from Mattie's lost, confused face), mind spinning mind screaming wanting needing –

– alcohol alcohol where the fuck was the alcohol, vodka to knock him or whiskey or gin or even that nasty sugary shit Antonio drank, it didn't matter, just something something _anything –_

– because he'd really screwed up this time, fucked it all up nice and proper and what was he thinking why the fuck had he done that what kind of a guy what kind of a _friend _would –

_You would, _a voice in his head said, and Gilbert cringed from it, _you would and you did, insulted and hurt the poor kid, and did you _see _the look on his face, he's already all fucked-up over this and it's – all – your – fault – _

"I know!" Gilbert shouts, shouts though there are still people in the alley, lipsticked women with long nails and men in dark suits, all starting, eyes and eyes and eyes following him, wide, shocked –

– because he was crazy, crazy and stupid (_so fucking stupid)_ and such an idiot, such a fuck-up, such a such a –

(freak, that was the word, and somehow it was better now, calmer that he had found the words, bitter and sharp and so sweet with truth they hurt)

In the alleyway, Gilbert leans against the wall and laughs, laughs and does not care who stares.

(Crazy. Freak.)

(Yeah. That was about it –)

* * *

><p>– he had followed him, afterwards, ran after Gilbert when the shock had worn off, the taste of whiskey on his lips quickly lost in the mouth-drying fear of <em>oh shit oh shit <em>and _what if –_

Because what if, what if, what if –

_(he was too late, Gilbert already gotten back before him and had done it, too quickly for ambulances to be of any help, already fallen off a roof or stumbled into the street on accident (on purpose), was now already nothing more a bloody streak on dark pavement –)_

He had wanted to cry then, to scream, to break down and just _stop, _stop running searching worrying caring – but before he lost his composure completely, Matthew had had the foresight to call Francis and Antonio.

And Francis, who picks up instantly and who had left the party several hours before, says, "salut? Mattieu?"

Then: "Mattieu, s'il vous plaît, calm down – je peux à peine tu comprendre, bon? Oui. Oui. Oui – ah, Gilbert? Est ici. right now. Oui, en ce moment – came here just a few minutes ago, actually"

* * *

><p>"Sugar?"<p>

"Black," Gilbert muttered, not his head from the table.

Francis nodded, and brought over two steaming mugs of coffee.

"Folgers," he said, making a face. "I could have made something more palatable, mais, bien, it's as good as anything for a hangover."

Gilbert said nothing, made no indication he had even noticed Francis's presence. Only sat there, head on folded arms as he stared into the wall before him. Francis watched him for a moment, hands cupped around his coffee as he observed his friend.

"You know," Francis said thoughtfully after a moment, "if you wanted privacy, you could try not sneaking into other people's homes, d'abord."

"I didn't expect you to be here."

"The fact that I pay rent may have tipped you off, peut-être?"

"You spend half your time in hotels or other people's bedrooms," Gilbert said, not lifting his head. "How was I supposed to know you would be home right now."

"Yes, bien," Francis said, not denying the charges as he blew on his coffee, "perhaps you ought to begin assuming so. Par principle. Although," he murmured to himself, "au moins, now I know where all my brandy has been disappearing to."

"Your fault for leaving your keys lying around."

"C'est juste," Francis concede. "Bien," he sighed, "since you are here, I assume you've come for help – to what, alors, do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

To which all that came was a soft, pained groan.

"Mathieu?"

"I fucked up," Gilbert said, raising his gaze blearily to Francis, "I fucked up, Francis – I was drunk and stupid and –"

"And?"

"AndIkissedhim," Gilbert moaned, slamming his head back onto the table again. "Poor kid was trying to look after my ass, and then I fucking _insulted _him, and then I fucking _kissed _him – oh God," he groaned, burying his head in his arms, "fuck, why would I even _do _that?"

"Ah," Francis said, putting down his coffee.

"Bien alors," he said after a moment, steepling his fingers together, "ensuite – bien, let me start from the most important part. Do you have feelings for him?"

"What?"

"Oh, _allez_," Francis sighed, waving a hand, "even _you _can't be that dense – feelings, mon ami. Attraction, une béguin, amour – do you like him?"

"Well," Gilbert said slowly, "of course I do – Mattie's a sweet kid, a fucking saint, you'd have to be a fucking bastard not to, why wouldn't I – but if you're asking if I'd want to date him or something? I don't know. I mean, the kid's cute, but it's in a kind of puppy dog way, and anyways I'm pretty sure I'm into not guys – but look, that's not important –"

"Ah, Mon Dieu," Francis sighed, putting his face in his hand, "Mère de Dieu, prends pitié – important? Bien sûr,est_ important –_Gil, it's the most important thing we've talked about all night –"

"Look, I _can't _do that, okay? I mean, look, say you're right and I _do _have a thing for him and it wasn't just something I did while shit-faced, Mattie's a sweet kid, a good kid – I've fucked him over enough with all of this, alright, I can't drag him further into this –"

"Drag him into _what_? Mon ami, you aren't dragging anyone into anything – you did nothing, bien? You never did, bien? Mathieu is here parce que _he wants to be_, and he isn't leaving anytime soon. Pour l'amour de dieu, Gilbert, ayez un peu plus de confiance en nous – please, have a little more faith in your friends –"

* * *

><p>"Well," his little brother says slowly, when Gilbert finishes, sitting back and watching Luddy's reaction, "I can certainly see how that would be –"<p>

"Fucked up? Idiotic? Insensitive and stupid as fucking hell?"

"_Worrying," _Ludwig finishes.

"Right," Gilbert snorts, flopping back in his seat. "That's what it is – worrying. Like Matthew should give two shits about me now –"

"I don't see why he wouldn't."

"Oh, I don't know, Luddy," Gilbert says, "maybe because I've been dragging him through shit all semester and general acting like a nutjob who walked out of the DSM, just like the shit I pulled on Feli tonight? You know, the kinds of thing you normally don't fucking forgive people for?"

"I would. Feliciano would."

"Well, then, you're both saints –"

"No," Ludwig says, "I'm not. Feliciano's not, either. I'm your brother, and Feliciano's your friend – of course he'll forgive you. And if he is as wonderful as you say he is, your roommate will too."

* * *

><p>He leaves out details, of course – changes names, cuts out parts, leaves out the bit about the kiss, which he is still processing – but in the end, he tells her all of it: the alcohol, the overdose, that last, disastrous night.<p>

She doesn't say anything for a while after he finishes, just stands there, wind blowing through her hair as they both stare down at the balcony.

"Well," his mother says finally, choosing her words slowly as she wraps her coat a around her, "that certainly does seem like a difficult situation. I don't know if I've told you, but I had friends in college with similar situations – not necessarily what your friend has, of course, but similar things. It's rough, honey; it always is."

She pauses, looks at Matthew as if waiting for a response, then, when none comes, continues.

"And I know it was hard," she continues, "I know it can be frustrating and seem hopeless at times, Mattie. But you know," she says, smiling, "that doesn't mean it's useless. That doesn't mean it isn't appreciated or that it means nothing. People are always grateful to have a friend. And I don't know whether you should stay or not, but from you said, it sounds like your friend means a lot to you – and from what he's said to you, it seems like you mean a lot to him, too."

"You think so?"

"I do," his mother says, taking his hand in hers, "I do, Mattie. Do you remember, that time in the Appalachians, when we went hiking, and how Dad yelled at you and Al after you wandered off without us? Remember how I told you guys afterwards that it wasn't because he was angry at you, only that he'd been so worried about he'd lost your too never see you again? I think that might have been the same with your friend," she says, smiling. "I think he might have been worried or maybe scared, and that he took it out on you – I don't think he would be angry at you, sweetheart."

"_But what if_ –"

"What if what?" she asks. "You did nothing wrong, Mattie," she says, squeezing his hand, "nothing but try to be a friend."

He stares at her for a moment, at the sheer, loving trust and conviction in her face, and then looks away.

"Thanks, Mom," he says finally.

"Of course," she says, smiling, "what else am I here for? Now come on," she says, squeezing his shoulder, "the game's almost over, and it's getting cold – let's come on in, sweetheart."

"In a little bit," Matthew says, flashing her a smile. "I'd like to know how much I'll be shoveling in the morning."

"Well," she says, patting his shoulder, "don't stay too long, then."

And then she goes inside, and then Matthew is there again, alone with the snow and his thoughts.

It is quiet, outside, serene and not too cold despite the gently falling snow. Calming. In the silence, Matthew exhales, watches his breath paint clouds in the air as he lets himself collect the events of the past few weeks.

So much had happened, after all – from finding his roommate nearly dead to learning Gilbert had bipolar to the last few days at NYU, when he been a bundle of fear and anxieties, Matthew knew he had certainly more than enough to collect –

(– and there had also been something else, something he hadn't mentioned when he had been talking to his mother, that strange moment between frustration and worry and shock when Gilbert's lips had met his – a break in the pattern that stays there, shines there, and that Matthew somehow cannot forget –)

But he still doesn't know what to think of that, and there were more than enough things already to process, after all.

It would take a while, that he knew. It would take time, time and effort and patience. But he was more willing to give them, and he hoped Gilbert, too, would be willing to receive them.

* * *

><p>Brought to you fresh from finals week, all rough and crinkly and barely edited!<p>

Sorry for not writing lately; college has been, well, a party ._. But here's the chapter and hopefully I can get update more frequently over break!

**Translations:**

je peux à peine tu comprendre - I can barely understand you

Est ici - he's here

en ce moment - right now

d'abord – first

peut-être – perhaps

au moins - at least

c'est juste - that's fair

allez = come on

béguin = crush

Mère de Dieu, prends pitié - mother of God, have mercy

bien sûr - of course

parce que – because

Pour l'amour de dieu, Gilbert, ayez un peu plus de confiance en nous - for the love of god, have a little more confidence in us


	22. Beginning, Part II

Tinsel, ribbons, carelessly open boxes and strewn papers – needles crunching underfoot, fresh snow on the sidewalks.

Noise. Words. Warmth.

The sharp scent of pine, the warm spice of gingerbread. Stockings hung by the chimney with care.

All across Connecticut and New York, parties will be starting in a few hours, gingerbread and eggnog affairs hapless children everywhere would be dragged along to, even those in college – he's an old family friend, Al, how you possibly say no? – but for now, a silence. A lull.

And in it, across two separate states and in two separate homes –

Matt finds his phone, shifts through his contacts –

In his room, Gil sighs as he turns his phone on, scrolls down to _Williams _–

Two fingers hit _call _at the same moment, and for a moment, in the December-chilled air, two boys in separate states wait for the other to pick up.

"Gil –"

"Mattie –"

Words desperate, running, then suddenly stopping as they stumble into each other. A pause.

"Um. How was your Christmas?"

"Pretty good, pretty good," Gilbert says, kicking his feet as he stares at the ceiling from his bed. "How was yours?"

"Pretty good, too."

"That's good."

"Yeah."

Another pause.

Matthew bites his lip.

A hundred miles away, Gilbert leans his head back, stares at the ceiling for long, long moments.

"So anyways –"

"About that whole roommate transfer deal –"

"What you said last time –"

Another pause.

"R_-ight," _Gilbert says finally. "Okay, I think we can get the hang of this whole telephone deal down – you talk, then I go. Right?"

"Um, well, actually," Matthew says, shyness manifesting despite the miles between them, "it's okay with me, actually, if you go first, too. If you want to, that is," he adds, staring at his feet. "Um."

Pause.

"Uh, sure – no problem. That's fine with me. If it's fine with you?"

"Yeah."

"Oh. Okay." Lips licked, feet tapped against wood floor: tun, tun, tun_k_. "Yeah, so about that roommate transfer deal – well, I mean, I wasn't serious about it actually – unless you wanted to moveoutthatis," the words added hastily, coming out in one burst of breath, "but if you didn't want to go through all that, not like I'm trying to push you either way, but if you wanted to stay –"

"Wanted to stay?"

"Yeah, if you wanted, then it'd be fine with me – I mean, of course only if you wanted it, no hurt feelings or anything if you didn't –"

"Wanted to stay? Of course I do!"

"– like, it'd be understand and I wouldn't mind, it's not like we couldn't still be friends – oh. _Oh."_

Beat.

"Of course I'd want to stay," Matthew says, the words quiet but slow, with emphasis on each one, "_of course _I would."

"Oh. Um. That's well...that's good to know."

"Yeah."

Another silence, but this one suddenly somehow cozier, somehow comforting.

"So," Gil says, breaking the silence, "get anything nice for Christmas?"

"Some books. A couple of movies. Lots of clothes, most from my aunts in Canada – I think I could probably free a colony of house elves with the socks I've gotten over the years. What about you?"

"Oh, man, nothing too impressive, either – Vati's not exactly the best at Christmas, all about _practical _gifts and shit, and ever since he decided I spent too much time in front of the Xbox, it's been all self-help books and screwdrivers. Got the last season of Game of Thrones from Luddy though, so that was pretty awesome – do you watch it?"

"I saw an episode, I think, when we were at a hotel. Is that the one with, um, a lot of incest in it?"

"Oh _yeah," _Gilbert says, and Matthew doesn't think he's ever heard someone sound so enthusiastic about incest before, "and blood and gore and betrayal and lots and lots of other kinds of sex – but I mean, what do you expect? It's basically War of the Roses with dragons and zombies, of course it isn't going to be fucking Mister Rogers – but _fuck, _it's _great_. The characters, you know? – it's the characters that do it, get you hooked. It's on Netflix – we could marathon the first season sometime when you get back."

"Sure thing," Matthew says, a slight smile creeping on his face, "we could do that."

* * *

><p>And after that, it seems better; after that, it gets better.<p>

Spring semester is a month away, and they call each other during it, late-night calls fueled by mutual boredom and the exhaustion of dealing with parents and younger siblings. It's not a planned thing; Matthew, sitting inside his room to avoid yet another of Al's impromptu parties, will – after a few moments of unsuccessfully trying to drown out the noise with a pillow over his head – reach for his phone, text "what's up?" And Gilbert, on the other side of the line and equally suffocating at a Kleindeutschland black-tie affair, will respond almost instantaneous, _fucking German party, want to blow my brains out – you? _And Matthew, though he will bite his lip at the joke – not funny, and he doesn't think it will be ever again – will ignore it, reply equally quickly, _Al's friends are over – same deal._

And so it went.

They talk about many things: favorite books, favorite shows on TV, which professors to take and which to avoid; when winter break lasts a month and the cold means the only other option is cabin fever, it was only natural. But one thing they never talk about, never discuss or bring up is _that_ night – that last, drunken, disastrous night, and what had happened at the end of it.

* * *

><p>"Mattie!" a familiar voice calls as Matthew opens the door, and before he can react, Antonio has already reached him, wrapping his arms around Matthew in a warm, bone-crushing hug.<p>

"Yeah, okay, I think you can let go now," a voice comes from behind Antonio, and poking his head out from Antonio's arms, Matthew blinks at it, "Jesus, no need to fucking suffocate him –"

"Lovino?"

"Yo," Lovino says, tone slightly less irascible than usual as he raises a hand. "Good break?"

"Y-yes," Matthew says slowly, still blinking as he extricates himself from Antonio's grip. "What are you guys – what are you –"

"To welcome you back, por supuesto!" Antonio cries, clapping his hands on Mattie's shoulders. "Lovi and me, pues, we got back yesterday, and it's been so _quiet_ everywhere – no hay _nadie_, it's been so lonely with no one here – y bien," he says, smiling, "since you were coming back first, pues, we thought it'd be nice to welcome you back!"

"_He _thought that," Lovino corrects, jerking a thumb at Antonio, "_I _didn't say jack. Actually," he adds, rolling his eyes, "he's been doing this all day, acting like some TSA agent and welcoming people back since this morning – pretty fucking ridiculous, actually –"

"Oh _dale_, Lovi," Antonio protests, turning around, "don't be like that – you're here también, no?"

"Because you fucking dragged me along, asshole," Lovino says, glaring at Antonio. "Practically abducted me, actually – and I told you, don't fucking _call _me that –"

"Oh, but it fits you _sooo_ much better, es _muuuucho_ más adorable – y además, we're _friiiends_, aren't we, Lovi –"

"When are the others coming back?" Matthew asks, quickly changing the subject before Lovino – looking like he could deck someone – can respond.

"Tonight!" Antonio says, turning to Matthew without missing a beat. "There's a barbecue at Washington Square, at six, lots of people will be there, casi todos the frats and the sororities, y Michelle and Francis will be coming by later – Francis nearly had a heart attack when he heard about it, but Michelle was better about it – y pues, we'll be meeting them there. It'll be fun, no?" Antonio says, beam practically demanding confetti.

Behind him, Lovino rolls his eyes, mouths "cuckoo" as he twirls a finger by his head – and Matthew can't help but laugh at that, Antonio's cheer infectious.

"And what about Gil?" Matthew asks, grinning. "He lives closest, doesn't he – shouldn't he be here by now? Or is he late _again_?"

There is a moment of silence, a small, silent break, during which Antonio's smile flickers and Matthew's good mood plummets swiftly into worry.

"Ah, bien, Gil," Antonio says, putting on his biggest, brightest smile, "he just texted me this morning, en realidad – something came up, family, creo que fue, so he'll be there for a while. Can't make it, tengo miedo – but he'll be back tonight!" he adds. "Which is good, I think – you can unpack without worrying about someone else getting in the way, toma tu tiempo, relax a little – oh no," he says, smile suddenly vanishing, "we're not keeping you from that, are we?"

"The fuck do you think we've been doing, Sherlock?"

"No," Matthew says, smiling briefly to alleviate the worry in Antonio's eyes, "it's fine, I slept most of the trip. It was, um, nice of you guys to welcome me back."

"Yes, bien," Antonio says, smiling in relief, "if you need any help unpacking – or you need to get anything from the library – or help with anything else, anything at all –"

"It's fine," Matthew says. "Thanks, but I don't need any help."

"Are you sure? We could keep you company –"

"No," Matthew says, shaking his head; company was the last thing he needed now, when the knots were already starting to form in his stomach and the sick sharpness rising in his throat, "um, the mixer's at six, right? I'll see you then."

"Ah," Antonio says quietly, smile briefly drooping before he recovers. "Don't forget to dress warmly!"

And that makes Matthew smile, almost lifts his mood – "I will," he calls, raising a hand; really, Gilbert had been right when he called Antonio a mother hen – but the brief moment of gaiety quickly disappears as he reaches his room.

It is dark when he opens the door, and no one is inside – of course no one is, Antonio had just told him as much two minutes ago, what had he _expected_ – but Matthew does not move to turn the light on.

"I'm back," he says quietly, closing the door behind him.

There is, of course, no response.

Matthew stands there for a few seconds more, then – closing his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath – turns on the light, and begins unpacking.

* * *

><p>When Matthew arrives at Washington Square Park, the first thing he notices is how <em>crowded <em>it is. Antonio had told him all the Greek houses would be present, but somehow, Matthew hadn't truly believed that, had dismissed it as one of those things manufactured by the heat of the moment and Antonio's eternal cheer –

This time, however, it didn't seem like he'd been exaggerating. Matthew arrives a few minutes early, but the crowds are already crushing, no college student apparently willing to turn down the prospect of free food. There is a small team of RAs by the grills, floppy chef's hats and cheerfully lettered "WELCOME BACK!" aprons barely belying their growing apprehension. Matthew pities them already.

Wading through the gathering crowds of people, he nonetheless finds Antonio and Lovino easily enough. Which is not surprisingly, really; other students might be shouting and waving at classmates over the crowds, but there was only one person who would be actively _screaming._

"I swear to fucking God, if you dragged me out in this goddamn cold just to fucking _wait _–"

Around him, the other students had given Lovino a wide berth – which, frankly, works as well for Matthew, who squeezes easily towards the familiar figures.

"But I told you, Lovi, Francis just texted me they were getting off the plane, so they should be here soon – we just have to be patient, bien, Lovi? – Mattie!" Antonio cries when he sees him, seemingly oblivious to the way Lovino's face reddens in anger behind him. "Oh, magnífico, at least _you're _here, then –"

"Is something wrong?" Matthew asks.

"Oh nothing," Antonio says, smile slightly worried in spite of himself, "Francis and Michelle are just a little late, that's all –"

"_Fashionably_ late, je voudrais croire," Francis says, smiling as he walks up behind Antonio from seemingly nowhere. "Bonjour, mes amis – I hope we weren't keeping anyone?"

"Yeah, super sorry about all this," Michelle sighs, wrapping her jacket around her as she steps forward, "there was a delay at the transfer, and then the cab took _forever _to get here – but we're here now, right? So that's what matters!" Michelle says, smiling. She is wearing lipstick, redder and more formal than anything Matthew had seen on her before, and beneath her fur-lined jacket, her dress is a flowing, shimmery white.

" Honnêtement, Antonio," Francis sighs, similarly dressed in a crisp suit and silk tie that draw appreciative glances as they walk over to the food table, "I do appreciate the sentiment, mais _anyplace_ _else –"_

"Hey, hush," Michelle says, swatting at Francis as she piles her plate with coleslaw and spare ribs, "this was my idea, remember? I told you, frère," she says, waving a fork in front of Francis's face, "normal people are perfectly fine not always eating haute cuisine –"

"Et _I told you,_ Michelin," Francis says, patting his sister on the head, "that I couldn't do that to Maman – que dirait-elle, honnêtement, seeing me feed ma chère petite sœur such scraps–"

"Tu es _impossible_," Michelle says, rolling her eyes, but her face brightens instantly as she sees Lovino and Matthew.

"Hey!" she says, placing her plate down and wrapping the both of them in a perfume-heavy embrace. "Sorry for tuning you guys out for a bit there," she says, "Francis was being himself –"

"La meilleure chose _to be_, bien sûr –"

"– by which I mean an _ass," _Michelle says, sticking her tongue out at her brother; he gasps, placing a hand over his heart, "but oh my God," smiling as she turns back again, "it feels like it's been forever – how've you guys been?"

"Pretty good."

"That's great!" she says, beaming at Matthew. "And what about you?" she asks, turning to Lovino –

Lovino, who is normally short of no words, who now says nothing. Can seem to do nothing but stand there, eyes wide as if seeing Michelle for the first time –

"What?" Michelle asks, blinking as she tilts her head to one side, earrings jangling as she stares at Lovino. "Something in my teeth?"

"N-no," Lovino says, blinking rapidly as he shakes his head. "No," he says, eyes slowly making their way back up to Michelle's face, "you're – you look perfectly – perfectly fine." A brief glance once more at those teeth – then darting up to her eyes, then down to neck, chest, legs –

Oh dear, Matthew thinks, watching Michelle's expression become increasing confused as Lovino continues staring at her. This could become complicated.

There is worry, for a brief moment, then Matthew sighs, decides it isn't his problem, and walks back for more food.

"Matthieu!" Francis cries, waving when he sees Matthew walk over. "Mon ami, je suis _vraiment _désolé – the planes, you know, and the cold –"

"It's fine," Matthew says, smiling as he picks up a cupcake, and it was – good to see Francis again, good to be back, all those trite placates. But it _was, _it was nice to see them here, again, the same faces, the same easy words, everything seemingly still unchanged, still the same –

If Francis's thoughts linger at all on _that _night (and God knows how much Gilbert had told him, Matthew had walked in on them both grim-faced and hungover and hadn't dared to ask), he shows no indication of it.

"So you went to the Alps?" Matthew asks, politely accepting the glass of champagne Francis hands him ("fresh from Champagne,mon cheri, not the best vintage, mais certainement mieux que any of the watery stuff _here –")_ "That sounds fun."

"Bien, _oui," _Francis says, waving a hand, "we always go, chaque année – quite boring, en fait, mais est _tradition, _as Maman does so remind us – bien que personnellement, Nice is much more pleasant –"

"Oh, silencio," Antonio says, sliding back with a smile on his face and a beer in his hand, "don't ruin all Mattie's fun – I've always wanted to go too, you know. You could take us on a trip, tal vez –"

"And thoroughly dissuade you of the notion, j'espère – crois-moi, mon ami, when it's twenty degrees below zero, you won't be nearly so excited –"

"Is that so?" Antonio asks. "I don't think it would be so bad – I'm sure I could find a pretty Alps girl to help with that –"

"Bien, oui, yes," Francis says, grinning as he glances out at the crowd, "and New York is quite cold aussi, n–"

Something catches in Francis's breath then, and he suddenly stops. Instead, stands there, unblinking deer before headlights, staring at something (someone?) at the edges of the crowd –

"Francis?" Matthew asks quietly. "Is something wrong?"

"No – non, no," Francis says, smiling as he turns to Matthew. "I just thought I saw someone I knew, c'est tout."

"Did you?" Antonio asks, tilting his head as he leans forward on Francis's shoulder. "Old ex, mm?"

"Something like that," Francis says quietly.

Antonio blinks, glances at him; Francis meets his eyes for a brief second, line of his shoulders tense, and Antonio takes a soft breath, seems to understand (what?)

"Pues, come on," he says, smiling as he claps his hands on Francis's shoulder, "no need to think on unpleasant things now – vamos, let's get some more food, bien?"

"Are you trying to poison me?" Francis asks, recovering enough to look scandalized as he follows after Antonio. "Mon Dieu Antonio, we've had our disagreements, je sais, mais je croyais que we were _friends –_"

"Nope," Antonio says, cheerfully grabbing another beer and handful of chips, "I was only doing it for the wine and the good food, por supuesto. Hotdog?"

* * *

><p>And perhaps it is, as per Francis's suspicions, <em>indeed <em>the food, or maybe it's something else, the champagne he had politely finished or simply the _people_, too many and too much, words and noise and secrets he was not privy to– but within an hour, Matthew is forced to excuse himself, courtesy of the headache pounding in his temples.

Really, he thinks as he walks back, it wasn't as though he shouldn't have expected this – he'd always been bad with crowds, claustrophobic around too many people, it wasn't _that _surprising –

(still, still, that hadn't _just _been it, had it? Still, and if he was being honest, it had more to do with that look in Francis's eyes, that meaningful glance between him and Antonio, that familiar, oh so familiar mix of worry and confusion that had shot through Matthew at it - and Gilbert still not here yet, another edge of wrongness to twist in his stomach -)

Another twinge of pain shoots through his head, and Matthew shakes his head, forces himself to think on something else.

Everyone had the right to secrets. Hadn't Francis told him that, once before?

* * *

><p>As he nears his door, Matthew relaxes, sighing in the anticipation of waiting relief inside – a cup of warm tea and a Tylenol, perhaps some hot chocolate and a good book in bed –<p>

Mind thus preoccupied, Matthew opens his door without seeing it, and nearly jumps when he sees someone already inside.

Bent over his suitcase, Gilbert looks up, and seems equally startled to see Matthew there.

For a moment, they stare at each other, both blinking as neither say anything –

"Hey," Gilbert says, standing up, "um, hi there. Mattie."

"Gil." Pause. "Uh, hi too."

In the silence, Matthew notices a number of things – that in the past few weeks since Matthew had seen his roommate, he had gotten a haircut, ends shakily uneven in a way no professional barber would have ever tolerated; that the shadows under Gilbert's eyes, so bruise-like against pale skin the last time he had seen them, had lightened; that, in the gentle lamplight, Gilbert's eyes are not so much red as reddish-purple, violet coloring softening the startling hue they had appeared under fluorescent hospital lights. And that, in the bright morning light, his lips (the same lips that had been against his barely four weeks ago) were pale, faintly chapped.

(and did he mean he was attracted, because he noticed these things? But they'd always been there, he just hadn't been paying attention – did that mean attraction, being observant? It couldn't, could it, otherwise that would have meant he was attracted to every portrait he'd analyzed in Art History, and obviously that couldn't be true –)

Gilbert licks his lips quickly, and Matthew notices that, the redness of his tongue against pale skin.

"Good to see you, too," Matthew ventures.

"Yeah," Gilbert says, nodding quickly as he stands up. "You too."

Neither of them looking at each other.

"So," Matthew says, feeling strange to be the one leading the conversation, "Game of Thrones, right? Do you have, um, a time in mind for that – I mean," he adds hastily, "if you're still up for it, that is –"

"Still _up _for it?" Gilbert asks, staring at Matthew. "Roomie, of _course _I'm up – I've been meaning to rewatch season one ever since I started the first book, see how close it _really _sticks to the series – I mean," he says, suddenly catching himself, "if you've got time that is, second semester's a bitch and it's fine if you don't want to anymore –"

"Of course I do."

"Well," Gilbert says hesitantly, glancing up at Matthew, "we could watch the first couple of episodes today, if you want. Since we're free."

"Sure," Matthew says, smiling as he steps forward. And it is so _easy _then, the way Gilbert hooks his computer up to the TV and goes on Netflix – and it is so _east, _so _simple_, it was like nothing had ever happened, like nothing had happened changed –

(because it hadn't, had it? Lots of things happened in college – lots of people tried new things, lots of people got drunk, did stupid things, experimented – it didn't have to mean anything, not necessarily –)

But when they sit down on the floor of their crowded room, Matthew is acutely aware of the space between them, a deliberate patch of carpet that had not been there before -

(and if he just reached his hand over, just a few inches over -)

* * *

><p><strong>Notes:<strong>

Special thanks to Kira for catching some of my grammar mistakes - much love for preventing me from embarrassing myself :)

One of the parts of the immigrant experience is throwing parties where the guests are predominately from your ethnicity – if you've ever heard of "Asian parties," that's essentially the type of party the "Kleindeutschland party" refers to, except with Germanic guests. Kleindeutschland itself refers to the Little Germany which was once an part of Manhattan; it officially doesn't exist anymore, but I don't think that means no Germanic community exists at all.

I've been lax on saying this lately, but thank you all for reading (aka putting up with my unedited writing and terrible language skills) and generally being awesome! Happy 2014 to you all - I hope it treats you well :)

**Translations:**

Spanish

dale - come on

también – also

es _muuuucho_ más adorable - it's so much cuter

casi todos - almost all

en realidad – actually

creo que fue - I think it was

tengo miedo - I'm afraid

toma tu tiempo - take your tiempo

French

Je voudrais croire - I would like to believe

que dirait-elle, honnêtement – what would she say, honestly

ma chère petite sœur – my dear little sister

La meilleure chose – the best thing

suis vraiment désolé – I am very sorry

chaque année – every year

mais certainement mieux que - but certainly better than

en fait, mais est tradition - actually, but it's tradition

j'espère – I hope

crois-moi, mon ami - believe me, my friend

c'est tout - that's all

je sais, mais je croyais que – I know, but I thought that


	23. Sexual Tension: The Musical

In retrospect, Matthew isn't quite sure how he survives the next few weeks.

There are a few reasons for this, and by the time February comes around, he can recite them by memory – the classes (ridiculously hard now that they were in second semester, all the professors seeming to think that one semester of college had prepared them to write their dissertations), the weather (cold and miserable and perpetually icy – not even snowy, just _icy_), and the indignity of combining the two, walking to class in below zero weather –

And there was, of course, that other thing.

The thing from last semester.

The thing with Gil.

The sexuality thing.

* * *

><p>Three weeks into the semester, and Matthew still isn't sure what, exactly, to do about it.<p>

Of all the things to worry about – and of all the things to worry about Gilbert – he'll admit it feels fairly trivial, fairly selfish to be worrying about _this_ when Gilbert comes back every other day wrung-out and shaky from therapy sessions. If there was anything to be worrying about, it was that, whether his roommate is fine and not whether he wants to hook up with him –

Well. Maybe not. But still. In terms of priorities, his roommate's health ranks much higher than any potential romantic he might have had –

But the problem is that was that most of the time, Gilbert seems, well, fine. Not that Matthew trusts that much, these days – but it's easy to forget that, these days when he is so distracted with work and Gilbert is so determined to not talk about it.

The attraction thing might have played a part in the distraction, too.

Most of the time, it isn't something he thinks too much about; he has work, after all, schoolwork but also jobs and internships now that first semester is over and words like "future" and "finances" have started to hang over his head. And even then, in the little time he has left, most of the time, it'll be fine. They'll sit, in their room, on separate beds – Gilbert doing his analysis homework and Matthew struggles through his Natural Science work – the lights above them faded yellow, Gil click-click-clicking his pen as he ponders a proof. Or it'll be on the carpet together, fresh popcorn between them and _Game of Thrones_ playing on the old TV in front of them. And it will be fine – a new and respectful distance between them, of course, but with Joffery Lannister's descent into a lower form of life occurring in front of them ("Implying he wasn't one already?" "An even _lower _one, then"), easy enough to forget –

And then something will happen, Gilbert's wrist brush against his as he reaches for popcorn or Matthew will look up and Gilbert's face will be suddenly _there_, skin so pale in the blue light of HBO and so close Matthew could just lean up and –

Except, well, there was the part where he still didn't know if he was gay.

Admittedly, it would explain a lot of things – why his crushes in high school had always been so short-lived, why he'd never felt particularly bad about his lack of prom dates while his brother came home with girls on his arm every week – or would it? Had the idea, once implanted in his head, grown so that he only _thought _he was gay, like some sort of self-imposed hypnosis?

Except, well, that train of thought could as easily be denial, some sort of mechanism to cover an attraction he could not accept – except that idea, too –

Sometimes, Matthew hates being a psych major.

_Francis _would know, Matthew realizes with a jolt of chagrin, _Francis, _with all his experience and surprising insight would have no problem, know exactly what he felt and what to do –

Except that these days, Francis seems far too busy to [talk with Matthew on matters of the heart] – or to, really, talk at all.

Thesis work, he had said, shrugging his shoulders and smiling apologetically when Matthew had asked why he hadn't seen him on campus – "que," Antonio had said, smile lightly teasing, "you're sleeping with people for research now, hmm?"

To which Francis had only smiled quickly, waved a hand before disappearing to god-knows-where.

"O _Dios mio_," Antonio had said, eyes wide as he had watched Francis hurry off, "I can't remember the last time – creo que – he might actually be in _love _this time. Bien," he had said, smile softening, "I hope it works out for him."

Which, of course, is exactly why Antonio would not worked for this – he was just too _nice_, would have heard all of Matthew's complaints out and sent him off with a heart-felt wish that it all worked out. And Matthew, as much as he would have loved Antonio for doing it, knows that is not what he needed – not reassurances and calls to follow his heart, but rather the ability to find out what exactly that fickle organ wants in the first place.

Lovino would have been his next option – for all his scowling and lack of a thought-to-voice filter, he had quite the history on him, too, at least according to the rumors going around. Many of which, come to think about, had come from girls with decidedly bitter attitudes towards Lovino –

Except that, these days, Lovino, like Francis, seems preoccupied by his own romantic life.

In a way, Matthew supposes he should have seen it coming: the initial awkward meeting, the weeks of forced interaction, the lazy afternoons spent in cafes and the slow warming of relations – then finally _that_, that sudden night with Michelle appearing dressed up and Lovino seeming to see her for the first time – really, it was like something out of a rom-com. Matthew knew the shape of this story; he knew what would happen next.

Which, however, didn't make it any less painful to watch.

It'd been a Friday night, the next time he'd seen Lovino. There'd been a campus event, an outdoor concert-party-barbeque deal hosted by student government that Gilbert had (naturally) dragged Matthew to, on the premise that a friend of a friend of his brother's would be in the openers and it'd only be good to show support, you know? And Matthew, quite ready for a break from his mounting essays and just-maybe-possibly considering the possibilities of close proximity with his just-maybe-possibly crush, had agreed, expecting cold and claustrophobia and possible resolution of that daunting sexuality question.

None of which, besides the cold, he had gotten.

What he _had _gotten instead, in the surprising emptiness of Washington Square, was the realization, hitting him between half-way methodic warblings of indie rock, that Lovino's reputation as a flirt was well-deserved.

Because Lovino _had _been there too, smelling like he'd taken a shower in cologne and wearing for some inexplicable reason a pinstriped suit and suspenders. And next to him – dressed in blue pajama pants, hair like she'd just walked out of a shower, and looking just as dazed as Matthew felt about Lovino's sudden loss of fashion – so was Michelle.

And Matthew, hand still tentatively trying to sneak towards Gilbert's, had seen them there, Michelle folding her arms and tapping her feet while Lovino gave off attraction like they were radio waves, and had thought _oh dear._

If this had been a rom-com, this would have been the moment _it _happened, the climax to all the sexual tension woven through the plot – it would have been _it, _the pivotal scene where the protagonists, opposites in personality but still two sides of the same soul, slowly and over the course of a remixed pop song realized their overwhelming attraction to each other –

As it was, all the songs were _Radiohead _covers (most chosen, it seemed, to be as deliberately depressing as possible), and Michelle, in spite of all of Lovino's heroic efforts to act as a proper male protagonist, had seemed completely unaffected.

And, watching Lovino aggressively flirt with her while Michelle became increasingly confused, Matthew couldn't help but cringe a little inwardly. It was, he had realized, less of a rom-com and a little more like Sexual Tension: The Musical.

For quite a few of the parties involved, actually.

No, Matthew decides, asking Lovino was completely out of the question – even if Lovino, in the morass of his own romantic distractions, would have been capable of providing some insight, Matthew would still have felt terrible doing it, bothering Lovino when he had so much on his plate. Not even mentioning, of course, the sheer amount of _judgment_ Matthew knows he would have to prepare himself for – he could see it already, the shock surprise _what _in Lovino's eyes as he told him –

No, asking Lovino was out of the question. Absolutely so.

Which left just himself.

And that was, of course, no help at all.

* * *

><p>The thing was –<p>

The thing was, Matthew doesn't _know. _He doesn't know because it'd never happened to him; because he'd never dated anyone or really, thought of dating anyone; because – outside of a few crushes – he'd never been attracted to anyone _really, _substantially, and certainly no one male –

Inexperience, he decides. That was the whole problem of it, the reason behind the confusion that had been plaguing him since winter break. Which would mean, of course, that the best way out of it was to try again, test the hypothesis with all the rigor of the scientific method –

Except, how exactly, did you go about doing that? Telling your roommate _hey, due to events that occurred last semester, I may be physically attracted to you – can we kiss, just to check?_

Well. Well –

* * *

><p>"I just don't get it," Matthew says.<p>

"Huh?" Gilbert says, glancing over from his bed. "What's up?"

"It's just," Matthew says, shrugging his shoulders as he leans back, "we started this new unit a few days ago, right? About bonding. I mean," he says, turning to his roommate, "it's physics, yes, but it's the beginning of the unit, and the questions the professor's giving us, they're _just_ ridiculous – stuff about ionic and covalent bonds as if we were supposed to _know_ all about them already."

Matthew sighs. It was a Friday night; even when it had been senior year and he had swamped with applications and AP tests, he had never spent three hours on a Friday night working on science homework. _Core _science homework, at that.

On the other side of the room, Gilbert has put his book down, is staring at Matthew with a decidedly strange expression.

"What?" Matthew asks.

"It's just," Gilbert says, waving a hand as he sits up, "you got through high school, right? Didn't you take the ACTs or whatever –"

"Just the SAT, actually."

"Yeah, well, okay, that's fair, but whatever – your school made you take science, right? Because this is like, basic _basic _shit, roomie. Didn't you have to cover this in high school chem or whatever bullshit course you had to take?"

"Humanities person," Matthew replies, "freshman physics, sophomore bio, then AP Environmental Science junior year. We weren't too strong on the sciences at my school," he adds somewhat apologetically.

"But you covered that, right? Like, you know about ionic and covalent bonds, right – okay, so there're metallic ones, too, but they're probably too fancy for Core Natural Sci. But ionic and covalent bonds – you had to learn that _somewhere _before, right?"

"Junior year was a long time ago," Matthew says, then, seeing Gilbert's reaction, adds, "um. Probably? Um, I know what they _are, _and even if I've forgotten a lot of it, it's not too hard to pick up on. Not really. The TAs are good, and I'm not having any trouble on any of that – it's just figuring out how they work, really –"

"Okay," Gil says, lifting his hands in defeat; too late, Matthew realizes he had been rambling (and since when did he ramble, since when did he carry so rudely on like that?), "okay, fine, I get it. You're fucked."

Matthew begins to protest, then realizes Gilbert is right and merely nods, looking slightly abashed.

"S'not your fault," Gilbert says, shrugging as he walks over. "Public school system, No Child Left Behind and all that shit – fucked you over, okay, whatever, Bush administration screwed us all over – shit, you _really_ don't know any of this? _Fuck. _Okay," he sighs after a moment, putting his hands on the table, "fine, whatever – I can work with this. Let's go from the start, okay?"

"Okay," Matthew says – not so much because he _wants _to spent another hour or so on the topic, but because well, Gilbert is there. Leaning slightly on his chair, elbow nearly brushing his elbow, the faint freckles across his nose visible in the light –

"Right," Gilbert says, "so you've got ionic and covalent bonds. Most of the tif me, ionic are a lot stronger than covalent – 's all about electronegativity. Ionic bonds, the difference in electronegativities between elements 's a lot higher, so the attraction between them's that much stronger..."

* * *

><p>AN: I meant for this chapter to be uploaded two weeks earlier, but well, life ^^; Thank you for staying with the story, nonetheless, and I hope you all had wonderful Februaries!

I also feel the need to issue one of those vaguely copyright-esque statements that views expressed in this work belong to the characters and do not necessarily reflect those of the author - which is to say that, as a college kid who grew up in an incredibly liberal city, Gil is probably going to have a certain set of politics ^^


	24. Valentine's Day: Please, Hold

AN: a long, long belated chapter. I honestly have no excuses, it's embarrassing how long this took and how embarrassingly rough it is, but well. Someday I will come back to this fic and fix everything I want to.

That said, thank you to everyone who's stayed with this story so far! I heart you all many, many times over, because you are all more wonderful than this procrastinator deserves. Hopefully, I'll be better about updating in the future...

* * *

><p>"You know," Michelle says, "Valentine's Day is pretty stupid, when you think about it. And no," she says, raising a finger at Lovino's involuntary sigh, "this isn't <em>one of those feminism things <em>– I just happen to think it's a stupid holiday, that's all."

"Never said anything about it being a feminism thing," Lovino says, shrugging as he leans back in his chair, "or that there was anything wrong with feminism – the whole no-bra thing? Wouldn't mind too much if you started doing it."

"Aaaand there we have a perfect example of the whole feminism thing," Michelle sighs, rolling her eyes. "There are _sooo _many things problematic with that – "

"And about Valentine's Day?" Matthew asks, steering the conversation back in the hopes of avoiding another heated debate/one-sided flirtation session. Honestly, if the sexual tension between the two got any thicker, he'd be able to cut it with a knife.

"Well, right, about Valentine's Day," Michelle says, kicking the table a little as she waves a hand, "it's mean, it's not like I have anything against happiness or couples or whatever – and hey, if you want to do it on the fourteenth of February, good for you. But Valentine's Day," she says, shrugging as she stirs her latte, "institutionalizing it and everything – it just seems kind of silly, you know? Buying chocolate and taking people out to eat just so you can have sex with them, like some sort of elaborate mating ritual – I mean, what's the point of that?"

"Free chocolate," Matthew points out.

"Okay, true," Michelle concedes, "but it's all just so complicated, you know? You go to the store, pick out a card and flowers – good flowers, too, gotta be the nice ones or you're not trying hard enough – and maybe chocolate or wine or a stuffed animal of some sort. _Then _wrap it all up, pretty ribbons and everything, _then_ go over to the person's house. And for what?" she asks. "Just so some guy can build up enough courage to ask a girl out. I mean, come _on,_ just, like, step up and just freaking _do it _already. Not that hard," she says, shrugging as she sips her latte, "right?"

To which neither Lovino nor Matthew say anything. Neither of them meet Michelle's eyes.

* * *

><p>The thing was –<p>

Oh, screw it all.

The thing is, whatever the thing _was, _it didn't really matter anymore. Not that it'd been resolved or that it didn't bother him anymore – every time he looked at Gilbert, felt that odd sense of confusion/doubt/(possible) attraction (?), he couldn't help but wondering if it was really _real, _wondering if maybe it wasn't just some sort of psychological projection or something, some false and potentially codependent attraction brought about by a mix of fear about his roommate's health and the desire to help –

That was one of the downfalls of being a psych major, Matthew supposes, the ability to endlessly psychoanalyze yourself.

But the thing was? In the end, it didn't matter Because every time he looked at Gilbert, it didn't matter if he was lonely or projecting or just bicurious and not really attracted at all – because, in the end, the feeling was the same. And even if it was false, some sort of projection or feeling his brain had cooked up out of nothing, it was _there._

* * *

><p>"So," Gilbert says, not looking up from where he is, back on his bed and laptop balanced on his stomach as he types, "there's this new Moroccan place opening this weekend."<p>

"Hm?" Matthew asks, taking off his headphones. Hoping, teenage girl butterfly-in-the-stomach hopeless hope, that what he had just heard was right, what Gilbert had just said was –

"There's this new Moroccan place," Gilbert says, still intent on his computer, "and it's, what, a couple minutes by bus from us, and I think the college's giving us all ten dollar gift cards to it? Supporting local businesses, getting students out of their dorm rooms and all that whatever."

Matthew waits. Waits, with baited breath, for what will come next –

"And?" he asks finally, unable to bear the silence. And then, before he can think about it, "wouldyouliketogo?"

For a moment, a terrible moment as Gilbert looks up, eyes slightly wide, Matthew is seized by the fear that he is wrong, that he had read all the signs wrong and that no, there had never been nothing there –

"Oh," Gilbert says, looking slightly startled as he looks up, "uh, sure. This weekend? Saturday?"

Saturday was Valentine's Day.

"Sure," Matthew says, feeling just a little breathless, just a little dizzy "Saturday is good."

* * *

><p>Except, of course, for one fact:<p>

Saturday is two days away.

* * *

><p><em>Damn, <em>Matthew thinks as he browses the flower aisle, _shit, damn, _shit –

Most people, upon meeting Matthew, often assumed that he didn't swear, and in general, it was true; back in Connecticut, he had never sworn (had hardly spoken at all, to be true). That didn't mean he didn't know the words, though, hadn't managed to pick up the vocabulary – and now, staring at an endless aisle of flowers and pink teddy bears, he felt it was a more than appropriate occasion to use it.

That was the thing about gaining all your romantic knowledge from rom-coms, Matthew thinks glumly as he ran a hand over a floral-wrapped coffee set (did Gil like coffee? He had to, all those late night rants over Freud and O-chem, and besides, college students liked coffee, right? That was the stereotype, right?), the utter lack of _preparation _for the actual romance thing. Even Google had failed him – typing in _gifts for men _had given him nothing but a list of dead ends – snow boots? Watches? Cologne? Who actually _enjoyed _getting cologne? And why, Matthew thinks as he stares helplessly at the aisles of soft toys and chocolates, was everything so pink?

"Ooh!" a brown-haired girl next to him squeals as she picks up a bottle of cologne. "This is the new one from Hugo Boss – the one we saw all the commercials, remember? Roddy would like it, don't you think, Katyusha –"

_Well, _Matthew thinks with a sigh, _that would make _one person, at least. Lucky girl, not having to guess what to buy for a fickle German.

He took heart, though, from the fact that (lucky girlfriends excepting) everyone else in the store seemed to be in the same situation – quite a few of whom he seemed to know, actually. It was funny, just looking around, seeing kids he remembered from English or Psych 101 browsing the aisles – half of NYU seemed to be there, skeptically examining the chocolates or scowling over universally pink cards. And yes, there was Heracles, Professor Hellen's son whom he'd interviewed for his professors – and over there, to his right, that was Yong Soo, the Korean kid who seemed vaguely related to Yao while also being vaguely obsessed with him, and a little beyond him – wait, no, no, it couldn't be – was that _Lovino_?

Curious, Matthew cranes his neck for a better view – and yup, no mistaking it: no mistaking that hair and that distinctive angry scowl as he stalked purposefully towards the register. And in his hands...

_Oh dear, _Matthew thinks sadly as he watches Lovino go. He thinks of Michelle, the way she had laughed so easily when talking about Valentine's Day, and wonders, for a moment, whether he should talk to Lovino, break it down to him as gently as he could before she did –

Except there was Lovino, walking away with a bouquet of roses and a scowl on his face as he stared at his phone, looking up occasionally to glare at the line in front of him.

And Matthew – with a slight twinge of guilt, the gentle nagging sense that he should _do_ something – lets him.

Right now, after all, he had his own problems to take care of.

* * *

><p>Matthew decides, many Google searches and Cosmopolitan articles later, on a copy of <em>The Hedge Knight<em>. It isn't quite Game of Thrones, but Gilbert had all the other books, and the cashier had given him funny looks when he had asked if they had any craft beer – the perils of looking perpetually sixteen, he supposes. And okay, giving a book _was_ a little nerdy, but it fit all the first-date categories, as enumerated by_ Seventeen _– not too expensive, but considerate, something causal that still showed you paid attention to his interests. He hopes Gilbert would like it.

In the check-out line, Matthew checks his phone, decides it's too early to text Gilbert about dinner – would be too early, probably give him away for the probably romantic intentions he hoped Gilbert would probably reciprocate (he _would _reciprocate, wouldn't he? It'd been the one factor he'd desperately been trying not to factor into all of this, based on some perverse logic that if he didn't acknowledge it, it would therefore have the possibility of coming true –

Because if Gilbert said no, if he said _no –_

Well, Matthew tries not to think too hard about that. Though he assumes, in a general way, that avoiding eye contact and pretending not to exist for the rest of the semester is always an option.)

* * *

><p>It's early, but Matthew heads for the Alhambra Cafe anyway; the place is new, it's New York City, and they'd just given gift certificates to a bunch of college students, so it was <em>bound<em> to be crowded already, right? Spots probably _impossible _to get by now. Best to get there early, just to be sure. Plus, Matthew had to rehearse what he was going to say first, after all.

He'd tried it in the mirror a few times before he'd left – went through the list of phrases, trying to put together the right string of words. "I like you" was good, straightforward, but it would have to be preceded by something like "Gil, I think I have something I need to tell you," and _that _just sounded like something you said before telling your parents you were pregnant, not before confessing to your potential crush. "So um, yeah, remember that time you were drunk and kissed me?" was better in terms of casualness, but it also incredibly awkward, so full of potential for regrets or bad memories – and oh god, that would be bad, wouldn't it? First time – Matthew refuses to call it a date, won't call it a date until it's over and done with – and a whole bucket of awkwardness. No, Matthew had practiced – had Googled 'how to confess to your crush' the same way he had Googled 'gifts for men' and 'first date clothes' – practiced over and over again in the bathroom mirror, and this was how it was going to go:

He would walk in. Find a seat (hopefully there be one available) and, if any waiters came to solicit an order, tell them, "no thank you, I'm waiting for a friend." There would be more than enough people there; hopefully no one would have too much time to hover over one lone occupant. And when Gilbert came at six-fifteen (they had decided on six in the end, but Matthew thinks six-fifteen might be more realistic), he would smile, pull out a seat for him. They would order their food; and in between ordering food, Matthew would slip (casually, oh so very casually) the book out of its pink gift bag.

"Hey," imaginary-Gil would ask, "what's that?"

"Oh," imaginary-Matthew would say, letting Gil see the title, "it's something I thought you would like."

"Oh my God," imaginary-Gil would gasp, "isn't that the new GRRM?"

"It is," imaginary-Matthew would say. "I saw it at the bookstore, and I thought, well, I think Gil would like this. So it's a present."

"But why?"

"Well," imaginary-Matthew would say, possibly leaning over at this point – Matthew didn't know, he would figure out the details later – "it's because I think I like you."

Casual, simple, direct. It would be easy, that _easy, _and there were oh, oh so many ways it could go wrong.

* * *

><p>When he gets to the restaurant, there is a moment when Matthew wonders if he is at the right place, if – after all his plans for it to work out smoothly – it had gone wrong and no, this wasn't actually the place, but actually another restaurant two hours away and in the suburbs. He even checks the address on the gift certificate, twice.<p>

But no, it's the right place: 537 LaGuardia Place, right next to Cuban restaurant and an intimidatingly fancy burger joint. Not a great place to set up business, Matthew privately thinks, but the Alhambra Cafe fits right in, looking exactly the way it'd been advertised on the one of the many brochures he'd seen around campus: bright lights, cracked-stone floors, and _just _cutesy enough with its menu to be trendy and not cheesy. The food – from what Matthew could smell of it, wafting over from the kitchen – lent weight to the Yelp reviews too, all buttery lamb and warm spices. Everything was as advertised; everything was as he had planned –

Except the fact – slightly alarming in how it alarms him, when it should have made him giddy, glad – that the place, barring two or three patrons, was empty.

Just to check, he looks at his coupon. No, still the right place – and he was early, but he wasn't all _that _early –

"Excuse me," Matthew says, walking up to the hostess in front, "are any of these seats available?"

"Of course," the hostess – a skinny, dirty blonde whose tattoos poke out from under her neat uniform – says, giving Matthew a customer-service perfect grin. "Any seats you see, feel free to go for – we have a few reservations coming soon, but there should be enough room for one more person."

"Oh," Matthew says, "er, it's two actually – I'm waiting for a friend, but they're, um, not here yet."

"Not a problem. Inner or outer tables today?"

"Er –"

"I'd recommend one of the inner tables," she says. "There's a courtyard in the middle – and you'll have a nice view of it there, and it's warm enough today that some of the flowers have started coming out. More romantic, in my opinion."

Matthew blinks. Tries, valiantly, to say something, but then stops.

There is a glint in the girl's eye as she watches him, silently takes Matthew in from the dress clothes to the colorful gift bag in his hand.

"Um," Matthew says. "Sure. Inner room it is then."

"Excellent choice. A waiter should escort you to your seat soon – Elena?" she calls, looking back. "Can you come out real fast?"

"Er, it's okay, actually," Matthew says, smiling quickly. "I don't think my friend'll be here for a while, so I can just, um, wait and tell you when we're ready. So that I won't have to keep you from anything."

The hostess looks confused for a moment, but recovers quickly. "Alright," she says, nodding. "I'll give Elena your table, and whenever your friend arrives, you can just come back up here to tell me."

"Thank you," Matthew says, smiling at her, more genuinely this time, and she smiles back.

"Just one more question," he says, digging in his wallet – and ah, there it was. "Are these still valid?" Matthew asks, holding out the folded green gift certificate. "My school gave them out to us last week, and I'm not sure if you're still taking them –"

"Let me take a glance," the waitress says, reaching a hand forward; obliging, Matthew hands it over.

"Looks like it," she says after a moment, handing it back to him. "Although, it's kind of confusing to say we're new, since Alhombra's been in the city for seven years now. New here, yeah, but that's just because we decided to switch locations. I don't know if all of our patrons have found it yet," she says, gesturing at the rows of empty tables, "but it should start getting full, in a little while. We don't begin serving dinner until five, you know."

"Ah."

"But please," she says, smiling as handing him a menu, "feel free to order drinks or just wait until then."

"Sure," Matthew says. "That would be wonderful."

And, taking the menu, he walks inside.

It's a cozy restaurant, all soft chairs and chintzy orange light, and there _is _a nice courtyard, the flowers starting to bud through the snow. Matthew finds a table by it, sits down and looks around for a moment.

It is four forty-eight.

There is, for obvious reasons, no sign of Gilbert.

Slowly, Matthew takes _The Hedge Knight _out from its bag, and begins to read.

* * *

><p>"Matthieu?"<p>

It's a familiar voice, and it shouldn't make Matthew start as much as it does, blinking as he stares up at Francis's face. "Ah, c'est tu! Quelle merveille, to see you here, mon ami!"

"Et tu, aussi," Matthew says, smiling as he puts his book down. "Quelle chance, I haven't seen you much lately – although," he says, frowning as he remembers Francis's disdain of any restaurant with less than two Michelin stars, "what exactly _are_ you doing here?"

"Moi? You need to ask?" Francis asks, smiling. "C'est Saint Valentin, Matthieu – all the young lovers are gathering together, celebrating or perhaps merely hoping that today will be the day they shall be lucky, and l'amour will strike. Et moi? Quoi d'autre, what else _could_ I be doing?"

Somehow, that surprises Matthew. It isn't that he doubts Francis's ability to be charming – he'd seen him in action too many times to doubt that, leaning over coffee counters and smiling at unsuspecting servers at restaurants – but it's harder to wrap his mind around the idea of Francis actually _dating. _Matthew's sure he did it – took his various paramours out on dates, had nice dinners and all the usual frippery of rom-com love – but on Valentine's Day? In _that _kind of suit, superlatively formal and well-tailored even by Francis's standards?

_That _was the part Matthew could not understand, could not in a hundred years connect with the name "Francis Bonnefoy."

He doesn't say of this, of course. Instead, Matthew says, "that's nice. Do you know what time they'll be here?"

"Ah, bien," Francis says, smiling, "non – not really. It's more of a waiting thing – early love, tu sais? Pour être franc," he says, smiling down at his coffee, "I don't know if she would even _like _– mais, bon, c'est la vie, c'est la vie."

"Oh," Matthew says. The idea of it catches him a even more off guard – smooth, experienced Francis uncertain about charming someone? Smooth, experienced Francis _nervous? _

"Et tu?" Francis asks, smiling as he sits in the chair next to him. "Attends que quelqu'un, aussi, a date of your own, _hmm_?"

"Oh," Matthew says, trying his best to look casual as he waves a hand, "the university was handing out free gift certificates and I thought I would, you know, have dinner here. With, um," he adds, "a friend."

"Oh?" Francis asks, doing something spectacularly expressive with an eyebrow, eyes quickly running over Matthew's tie to the gift bag at his feet. "Et tu, when is your friend arriving, sais-tu?"

"Six-fifteen," Matthew says promptly, before realizing that he might have been a little _too _prompt in answer. "Er, we were planned for six, but my friend's not always punctual, so I just factored in a little time –"

"I see," Francis says, in the tone of voice that said he had clearly heard this line many times before and did not buy Matthew's charade, not in the least. "Puis, bien," he says, brightening as he leans over, smiling his most charming and Francis smile, "just enough time for a drink, non?"

* * *

><p>They're at the bar, waiting on their first round of drinks – a Merlot for Francis and an Italian soda for Matthew, which Francis had insisted on paying for, despite his protests – when suddenly Francis perks up, taps Matthew lightly on shoulder as he stands up.<p>

Matthew looks up, for just a moment, and Francis smiles, the kind of cat-like, ready smile that Matthew knew meant mischief.

"Allons-y," Francis says, lightly touching him on the wrist; Matthew hesitates for a moment, but then gives up and follows him.

"Have fun!" the hostess – the nice hostess, the one who had let him sit wherever he wanted and told him the best seats in the house – calls after him. There's a sly grin on her face, and Matthew blushes, remembering the thumbs-up she had given when she saw them, undoubtedly thinking that Franciswas the mysterious friend he had spoken about.

Well, she'd been partially right – Francis was his friend, after all. Just not the right one, and certainly not the one he wanted to be following right now, headed towards God knows where and undoubtedly trouble.

"Francis," Matthew tries to ask, "what are you –"

And then he stops. Stops, because he sees him, a familiar, overdressed figure sitting at the table and scowling at his menu.

"Lovi, mon ami!"

Lovino looks up, the scowl on his face automatically widening before it stops, freezes as he sees Francis standing in front of him.

Matthew sees the thoughts cross through Lovino's mind as simply as though they were written there: automatic disgust, interrupted by the sudden realization that was the brother of his potential girlfriend, horror at that, then tempered by a slow wariness –

"Um, yeah," Lovino says, swallowing. "Nice to see you too."

"Et tu aussi, mon ami!" Francis cries, wrapping his arms around Lovino; Matthew sees Lovino squirm slightly, then slowly resign himself to the embrace.

"Um," Matthew says from behind Francis, "hi, Lovino."

"Hi," Lovino says, raising one hand flatly.

"So, um," Matthew says, knowing where the conversation is going to go (obvious to know, obvious to see as easily as he sees Lovino's discomfort) and desperately clawing at some way to help change its course, "how's second semester going?"

"Oui, _bien sûr_!" Francis exclaims, letting go of Lovino but invading his personal space no less. "It's been such a long time, et, oui, I _have_ been so busy, mais _je ne peux simplement pas croire_ – but today! Matthieu, et tu, aussi! Such luck, I cannot believe – and today, too, of all days!" and there is something in the way he says those last two words that makes Matthew feel instantly wary, instantly worried.

"Puis," Francis asks, smiling his most dangerously sweet smile as he leans over, ruffling Lovino's over-combed hair, "what brings you here on such a day as this, mm? Such a pretty face, je penserais – mais, _oh_," he says, holding the last note as his eyes catch on the roses at Lovino's feet, the box of wrapped chocolates, "ah, I see."

"See what?" Lovino asks, and there is more than just a touch of the ordinary anger in the word – is streaked in, a piece of dark and trembling fear.

"Nothing," Francis says, but there's a gleam in his eyes that is far too bright to trust as innocence. Matthew thinks of a cat, some sleek and well-groomed predator, about to pounce. "Nothing," he says, again, slowly turning around, sighing dramatically, "only, well," turning around, smiling one hand on Lovino's table, "mais, I was just _wondering_," leaning in again, smile widening, "_qui _elle est,the lucky lady you're waiting for, hmm?"

"I think I'm going to order something to eat," Matthew murmurs as Lovino sputters incoherent noises of rage; "see you later!" Francis calls after him, a cheery noise completely at odds with the look in his eyes.

_ Poor Lovino, _Matthew thinks as he hurries back to his seat, echoes of "is she pretty? Do we know her? Oh, do tell, do tell, s'il vous _plaît,_" trailing behind him, _poor, poor, Lovino –_

And then the worst of it, suddenly coming from behind:

"So, Lovino," a familiar, high voice says, "um, you never told me why'd invited me to this place anyways – oh, hey, Frère, didn't think I'd see you here –"

_Oh dear, _Matthew thinks, wincing a little against he knows is coming even from several tables down, _oh no, no, _no,_ that was bad, wasn't it? _He probably should have done something earlier, given Lovino some heads-up while they were in the store – maybe then he wouldn't be here, frantically reading as he pushes down the urge to glance over, to hear the words that were coming from three tables down –

Normally, Matthew hates talking on the phone, but this time, when he hears the familiar opening, he all but dashes to answer it – not looking at the caller ID, not caring if it was a telemarketer or a pollster, merely grateful because thank God, now he wouldn't have to listen –

"Hello?" he says. "Matthew Williams-Jones, how can I –"

"Mattie, hey! Yeah, so I know I could have just texted you, but texting's always super-slow and you know, text and talking and stuff not carrying over –"

"Gil?" Matthew asks, blinking a little in surprise. "Why are – where _are_ you – did you get lost on the way to the restaurant?" he asks, a sudden horror-vision of lost Gilbert filling his mind – Gilbert going by muscle memory, frowning in front of a row of abandoned buildings as Matthew sits there, the light outside his window slowly fading into darkness –

"Um yeah, about that," Gilbert says, and Matthew's stomach instantly drops three stories, does a loop-de-loop, then plunges down three more, "the whole restaurant deal – this is super last-minute, but I kind of realized that there's uh, thing I have to do – this thing, you know? Labs and tests and all that shit, you know the deal, a million things a minute, blah blah blah _science_. So um, yeah, sorry to split, but I don't think I can do it today, roomie. But I'll be back at seven-thirty!"

There is a moment of silence.

"Oh," Matthew says finally, faintly.

"Seven-thirty," Gilbert repeats. "Seventy-thirty, okay? I'll be back then and you can tell me _alll_ about it then, how the place is and if the food's worth the trip. Seven-thirty."

"Sure," Matthew says, but the words feel hollow, as if they are coming from a long, long distant. "Seven-thirty."

* * *

><p>In the end, Matthew leaves without ordering anything. The gift certificates would keep and after Gilbert's phone call, he'd realized that he wasn't that hungry, anyway.<p>

When he leaves, neither Lovino nor Michelle are anywhere to be seen. And that, Matthew supposes, is a small mercy, because he was no in mood to watch anyone else's romantic interests plummet to a halt.

He goes back to his dorm in a daze, automatically walking to the nearest stop and getting on the right bus without noticing anyone on the way there. All the seats are already taken, full of chattering teenagers and couples holding hands – doubtless come here for a nice trip, Valentine's in the city – but Matthew manages to grab onto a handrail, mind too blank for his stomach to protest as the bus quietly lurches through the streets.

Of course. Of course it wouldn't have happened, of course it would have happened like this. It'd been silly, hadn't it, for him to think otherwise? Stupid. Cliché. He shouldn't have expected anything of it, even if it had been a normal day and not the fourteenth of February, when hope ran through the streets more unbidden than on Christmas Eve – and oh, speaking of, how utterly _stupid _it had been to believe it, to be suckered in and pin all his hopes on this, on the simple fact of the date! Confessing to your roommate on Valentine's Day? Ha! As if. That was the kind of stuff reserved for rom-coms and Nicholas Sparks novels, not college freshmen with fewer social skills than sense.

"Spring and Greenwich," the automated voice announces from above, and Matthew automatically pulls the cord, mindlessly continues staring into the blue-green cloth of the coat in front of him as the train hurries on.

There was – Matthew thinks as he gingerly steps off the bus and makes the practiced turn left with his feet still on autopilot – nothing all that surprising about it, really. Gilbert had been drunk; it'd been the end of the semester; they'd had a rough couple of weeks. Not that surprising, in the end, that it would happen – that someone at a frat party would do something they didn't mean, that a drunk college student would end up kissing his roommate.

The only surprising thing about it, Matthew supposes, sighing as he reaches for his keys, was how much he had let himself make out of it.

Inside, Greenwich Hotel is quiet. Empty, all the occupants – pretty Mei, chatty Feliks, probably even quiet Kiku, judging from the looks Heracles had been giving him lately – out, doubtless having first or third or thirty-first kisses in cafes somewhere. At other times, the recognition of this emptiness would have made him self-conscious, would have made him sad – but not now. Now, Matthew thinks as he reaches his door, gratefully finding it unlocked – his fault or Gilbert's, it didn't matter – now, it was better than it was empty, was quiet, because all he wanted was some sleep –

Matthew blinks, squints at the _brightness _of it for a few seconds – the too-bright lights, the sudden abundance of gold and silver and jarringly reflecting red – and then manages to make out, amidst the balloons and banners, a figure frozen in the midst of it all.

"Gil?"

"Mattie?" Gilbert asks, blinking like an animal caught in headlights as he stares back, a strand of streamer paper trailing guiltily onto the ground. "It's not seven-thirty yet – what are you –"

"I came back early," Matthew says, slowly staring around the room – the red balloons on the ground, the cooling cake on the table next to a half-oozing bag of frosting – "Didn't you say you had a lab?"

Gilbert, if possible, looks even more uncomfortable at that.

There is a moment, a quiet, oozing second as Matthew continues staring –

"So, um, yeah," Gil says, scratching his neck as he sighs, "I know I said I had something to do, but okay, I kind of lied about that – but I wanted to make the place halfway decent, you know? I mean, it's fucking Valentine's Day, place is supposed to be fancy or some shit, you know. And sorry about bailing on you again – I said that already, right? – I feel super skeezy about it, except then I got to thinking about it, and it was kind of like, really? In front of like, what, fifty people who'd probably be recording it on their iPhones – nah, I thought, that's not Mattie's style. And okay, he said yes, but does Mattie even _like _Moroccan food? Who knows, maybe he had some sort of freak accident with hummus when he was two – so yeah, logical conclusion, nix restaurant, go traditional –"

"Gil," Matthew says, shaking his head to clear it of the words bombarded at him, "could you, um, start over again? From the beginning," he adds, stepping inside and placing his keys on the table (_decorated_, his brain slowly tells him,_ with garish pink and purple paper hearts)_. "Slowly."

Gilbert looks away at that, and for a moment – just a moment – Matthew swears he is blushing, just slightly, in the over-bright lights.

"Um, well," Gilbert says, crossing his arms as he continues to avoid Matthew's gaze – and there was no mistaking it this time, the faint flush of pink on that pale skin, "I mean, okay, so I was going to – oh _fuck_," he says, sighing as he raises his eyes to meet Matthew's. "I thought this was going to be so much easier, like, way to fucking _go _Gilbert – but um, yeah, anyways," he says, taking a deep breath, closing his eyes briefly before he continues, "so um, yeah, do you remember that time I kissed you last semester?"

_This is not happening, _Matthew's brain whispers as he stands there, watching Gilbert – confident, brash Gilbert – fidget in front of him, feet tapping out a rhythm as he stares at that ground. This is not happening. This is a fever dream, some strange hallucination where up is down and gravity works wrong-side up –

Gilbert takes a deep breath, then turns to Matthew again, an odd, nervous determination in his eyes.

"So yeah, the reason I did it was because – well, uh – was because, um – Imightjusthaveabitofacrush. On, um. You."

_Amazing, _Matthew thinks as he watches him, sees Gilbert's face change from pale to pink to red. Astonishing how the world works, sometimes.

"I mean, kinda presumptuous, isn't it?" Gilbert says, nervously laughing. "Like, I don't even if you're bi or gay or whatever – fuck, for all I know, you might have some underwear model girlfriend who lives in Canada or some shit – long-shot anyway, good job Gilbert! Home court in the lead for stupidity! Not that I'd be bitter, of course," he adds quickly, "it's okay if this makes everything awkward or something – I'd totally understand, wouldn't mind _at all_ or anything, okay – "

Quietly, Matthew reaches over, takes _The Hedge Knight _out of its battered gift bag. Gilbert stops talking to as he does, slowly gnawing on his lip as he watches Matthew move.

"Gilbert," Matthew says, gently taking a step forward and putting the book in his hands, "here."

Imaginary-Gilbert, glancing down at the book and seeing its title, would go instantly into paroxysms of joy. Real-Gilbert, however, only stares blankly at the object in his hands, as if not quite comprehending what it is.

"Why did you –"

"It's um, a gift," Matthew says, suddenly just as tongue-tied as Gilbert. "For, uh, Valentine's, too."

And because he is suddenly too shy to look up, he doesn't see it, but he hears it, the slow way Gilbert's mouth rounds into a soft, "oh."

"Well, " Gil says, looking down at the book again, "I guess, then – um, thanks. Hedge Knight, huh? I always wanted to get into Martin's other stuff. Well. Uh. Thanks."

"Don't mention it," Matthew mumbles. Tentatively, he gives Gilbert a small smile, and is surprised to see Gilbert's face is still red.

"So does this mean," Gilbert says, then stops, bites his lip again, "that we're a thing?"

"Um," Matthew says, "I guess? If you want us to be, I guess."

"Ah."

And there is a long, long silence in which they both contemplate the meaning of that, of being a thing.

"Well," Gilbert says slowly, turning to Matthew with a small, tentative smile, "if we are – and if it's okay with you – then I guess that means I can do this again, then."

"Do what?"

"This," Gilbert says, and gently leans in to kiss him.

And whatever else Matthew was uncertain about – his sexuality, his attraction, whether any of it true or false or mere psychological projection – _this_, the steadiness of Gilbert's lips on his, _this _was real, this was true.

* * *

><p>Translations<p>

Quelle merveille! = how wonderful

Quelle chance - what luck!

C'est Saint Valentin - it's Valentine's Day

Quoi d'autre = what else

tu sais - you know

pour être franc – to be frank

Attends que quelqu'un aussi - waiting for someone too

bien sûr/entendu - of course

mais je ne peux simplement pas croire - but I simply can't believe

Je penserais - I would think

qui elle est - who she is


	25. Of Bets and Baby Showers

They decide to take it slowly at first – "I mean," Gilbert says, "I know New York's liberal as fuck, but that doesn't mean there aren't assholes around" – and Matthew nods at that, agrees. Not for reasons of safety, but because he preferred it better this way: low-key, slow, no one around to make a fuss or ask unnecessary questions. And seeing how their friends normally acted around – well, Matthew has only to think of Francis's reaction to already regret thinking about it.

And besides, now that it had finally happened – now that they finally knew, both of them – there are so, so many other things other things to think about.

So Sunday is slow; so Sunday is quiet; so Sunday is spent inside, four walls solid and strong as they talk long into the hours of the night.

* * *

><p>Monday morning arrives, and Matthew does not quite understand how so much and so little time have passed by – it seems like days had passed, not the thirty-six hours that had gone by, and yet at the same time, it feels as though it had been no time at all. Some hidden, more rational part of him whispers that he was being dramatic, thoughts so eye-rollingly cliché they could have come from a Harlequin romance – but Matthew, who felt that miracles were more than enough reason for a little melodrama, roundly ignores it.<p>

And it does feel like a miracle – after all those worries, all _that_ time, to think that both of them (both of them!) –

Well. It certainly makes it difficult to think during class, and Matthew is still in a daze as he walks out of biology, head a fog of pinks and fluffy pastels –

"Mattie!"

And it is strange, really, the speed with which he springs alert at that, the readiness with which he turns around – but then again, he thinks as he sees Gilbert sprinting towards him, not really. Not really at all.

"Hey," Gilbert says, pausing to catch his breath as he reaches Matthew. Sweat glistening in his hair and hands on his knees, he grins up at Matthew before suddenly drawing back, darting a glance at the people around him.

"Hey yourself," Matthew says, smiling as he reaches a hand to help Gilbert up; around them, New York University mills, students going to classes or dorms without so much as a second glance in their direction. "I thought you had class right now?"

"Geralds was merciful, let us out early," Gilbert says, gratefully taking Matthew's hand. "And I've got an hour and a half til my next lab, so I thought, hey, why don't I see if Mattie's free for lunch? You _are _free, right?"

"Free until two thirty," Matthew says, smiling. "Anyplace in mind?"

"Ah, actually," Gilbert says, "never actually got that far into the planning stage. Um," he says, putting his hands in his pockets as they begin walking, "what about that that place we were supposed to go to on Saturday? Before, well, you know."

"Alhambra Cafe? It's kind of far – are you sure you'd be able to get back in time for your lab?"

"Yeah, well," Gilbert says, shrugging, "just a thought. You got any suggestions?"

"I was actually just planning to go to the dining hall," Matthew admits. "But maybe we could, um, just walk around until we see someplace?"

"That works too," Gilbert says. There's still a hint of tension in his eyes, as if he half expects someone to shout and start pointing at the two of them, but the wariness is gone from his shoulders and when he smiles at Matthew, it is the most carefree thing in the world.

Slowly, slowly. Neither of them had done this before – Matthew had been quite astonished to learn about that of his roommate, but Gilbert had assured it that despite all the rumors, it was – and they would take this at their pace, their way. After all, there was hardly any need to rush –

"For the last time, I _do not _fucking 'need a hug–'"

"Oh, pero _Lovi, _there's nothing wrong with wanting one –"

They glance quickly at each other, then back at the bickering duo under the Starbucks.

They could, of course, just walk past them, pretending not to see either Lovino or Antonio – but in the end, that would do very little, only barely delay the inevitable. People would find out, sooner or later; just because they had agreed not to flaunt it, it didn't mean that they were ready to hide what had happened, what they were.

Plans would have to be slightly moved forward, then.

They had hoped to wait a little bit – a few days would have been impossible of course, considering how nosy Francis and Antonio were, but perhaps one or two days more, just enough to get their bearings, break the news in a more elegant manner –

Matthew looks over at Gilbert, and he nods, wordlessly takes Matthew's hand in his.

Well. So that was that, then.

And, hand-in-hand, they walk forward.

"I already told you, there's nothing _wrong – _I'm perfectly fucking fine, okay –"

"But _Loviii, daaale_ – you know it isn't healthy to keep everything to yourself _–_"

"Hi," Gilbert says, waving as they walk up to the table. "Interrupting something?"

"Mattie, Gil!" Antonio cries, effortlessly segueing from worry into delight as he turns to them. "Qué maravilloso, how _are _you– un momento," Antonio says, standing up, "I'll get the two of you seats –"

Gilbert looks at Matthew, who smiles, turns to Antonio.

"It's alright, Antonio," he says. "We were just on our way to get lunch – but we just saw you and thought we'd stop by. We uh, have something to tell you guys."

"Yeah?" Lovino asks, the scowl still lingering as he turns toward them. "That so?"

"Yes," Matthew says, bobbing his head up and down. "The thing is – well, um, you see – we're – it's just," Gilbert gives his hand a squeeze, and Matthew forces himself to look up, "we're dating."

"As of Saturday," Gilbert clarifies, lifting their intertwined hands into the air, as if for proof.

There is a moment in which they hold their breath, clutching each others' hand as they wait for the silence to break –

"Well, fucking finally," Lovino says, shrugging as he turns back to his coffee. "Took you two long enough – I was starting to wonder if I was ever going to get my five dollars back –"

"Lovi!" Antonio chides, tugging at his sleeve; Lovino rolls his eyes, deftly moves his arm out of the way. "But, oh_, !qu__é__ fantástico!_" he says, grinning as he turns to Matthew and Gilbert. "I'm so happy for you two – y ah, ahora, we can finally throw that party to celebrate! Although," he adds, looking suddenly worried, "I _did _buy that champagne a long time ago –"

"Idiot, champagne doesn't go bad unless you open it," Lovino says, scowling as he sips his coffee. "Besides, I'm sure if you really wanted something, my old man's got a cellar full of shit I could grab something out of –"

"Oh, _¿__verdaderamente?_ That's so sweet, Lovi! Entonces," Antonio says, beaming as he stands up, "you have to let me buy you lunch now –"

"Wait, goddamnit, no," Lovino says, scowling as he grabs Antonio's arm, "I told you wasn't fucking hungry –"

"Pero Looovi," Antonio protests, giving him his best impression of a wounded deer, "you haven't had breakfast! Y además," he says, voice softening a bit, "you've had such a time of it, pobrecito, and after this Saturday, especialmente–"

"That," Lovino says, anger suddenly low and deadly as he glares at Antonio, "is none of your business, absolutely none of it at _all." _His eyes flash at Matthew, who just as quickly glances away. "And anyways," he says, turning back to Antonio with a scowl, "that's pretty rich going from a guy who cries at Nicholas Sparks movies –"

"You know," Matthew says, as he watches Antonio protest that no, no, Miley Cyrus's performance had really been inspired, "I think maybe we should go."

"Um, sure," Gilbert says, glancing curiously between Matthew and Lovino, "whatever works for you, I guess –"

* * *

><p>"Are you guys really?" Michelle asks, putting down her coffee. "Well, congrats, then – although, damn," she says, leaning back and scowling, "I guess that means I owe Mei five dollars –"<p>

"Okay, I'm sorry," Gilbert says, leaning back and throwing his hands in the air, "but this is the second time I hear about a bet – just _how _many people were in on this?"

"Oh, dix, vingt," Francis says, "twenty-six, peut-être? _Merci _for asking on Valentine's, au fait – I do believe I'm forty dollars richer for it."

Gilbert stares.

"Since when –"

"Oh, ne sais pas," Francis says, waving a hand, "December, November? We're all very happy for you," he adds, "seulement, some more than others."

"_Right_," Gilbert says, dragging the word out as he glares at Francis. "Shit, and you couldn't even get us in on the deal?"

"Tout est juste dans l'amour et la guerre, mon ami," Francis says, smiling as he sips his coffee. "À propos," he says, looking at his watch, "excusez-moi, I do believe I have an appointment soon –"

"Oh please," Michelle says, rolling her eyes, "don't tell me you're going to Ceci Cela _again _– you need to switch things up, okay? Try Cafe Olivier – I hear it's really popular with the expats around here. At least, the one that don't have hovering stalkers at their every step."

"Cruel, Michelin, _très_ cruel."

" Tout est juste dans l'amour et la guerre, Frère," Michelle says, grinning at Francis as he, sighing in defeat, graces them with a smile and a quick "à plus tard" before standing up and purposefully striding away.

"Okay," Gilbert says as Francis disappears around the corner, "so I know I should have asked this earlier, but seriously, this is getting really, _really_ weird. I mean, not that it ever _wasn't _weird, but this is getting into straight-up stalker territory now – and anyways, who even _is_ he looking for? Do they have, oh, I don't know, a name or something?"

"Who knows?" Michelle asks, shrugging. "When Francis gets into these moods, it's impossible to get anything out of him. An old friend, is what I'm guessing. Maybe one of those people he dated while in boarding school or something."

Matthew and Gilbert glance at each other at that, and there is a short, brief moment when the same thought very clearly crosses their minds – _Francis?_ Francis, who had won the hearts of half the female population at NYU but never slept with the same girl twice; Francis, who could charm the pants off of even the most heterosexual men but never seemed charmed enough to stay the morning after – that Francis? _Their _Francis? Getting sentimental over old relationships?

"Boarding school was a strange period in my brother's life," Michelle adds.

"Ah," Matthew says.

She nods, delicately cutting the crusts off her panini. "_Really _strange. St. Champagnat's was an all-boys school in, like, the deep, deep countryside – I don't think there was maybe one, two theaters, max. Nothing but cows and rich Catholic teenagers for miles. You can imagine what a nightmare _that _was."

"Enough about cows and assholes," Gilbert says, "I still can't believe it there were people actually _betting _on us –"

"Twenty-six of them, if you want to be accurate."

"Well, that's twenty-two more bastards I'll have to track down," Gilbert says, glowering as he stands up. "God, even fucking _Tonio – _I swear, when I find him again –"

"You're going?" Michelle asks, blinking as Gilbert slings his bag over a shoulder.

"Lab," Gilbert says, waving a hand. "Something about not missing

"Oh, right, yeah. Labs, classes, homework – education or something. _That_. Guess I'll be seeing you guys around, then?"

"You as well," Matthew says, smiling at her as he takes Gilbert's outstretched hand.

"Oh, um yeah, actually," Michelle says, fidgeting as she turns to him, "nearly forgot – but uh, quick question, Mattie?"

"Yeah?"

"Well," Michelle says, not looking at him, "I'm just wondering – have you, um, by chance seen Lovino lately?"

"Just yesterday, actually," Matthew says. "Why?"

"Oh," Michelle says, trying to be casual as she shrugged but falling quite short, "nothing really. It's just, we have Calc together, and he hasn't shown up last two classes – which isn't such a big deal, but well, it's just –"

Gilbert glances at Matthew, who gently squeezes his hand, gives him a slight tilt of his head that means _later._

"Well," Michelle finishes, face slightly pink, "just, if he ever needs them, he can borrow my notes."

"I'll tell him that."

She nods, still not meeting Matthew's eyes as she stares at her plate. "Thanks."

"What was _that _about?" Gilbert asks as they walk away.

"It's a long, long story," Matthew sighs, taking his hand. "I'll tell you after class."

* * *

><p>Of all the ways Matthew had imagined it would go, this, he decides, was definitely not it.<p>

He had known, of course, that New York City was fairly tolerant; known, of course, that New York was a liberal city, communists handing out flyers on campus every other day and announcements of gay marriages printed next to those of straight ones –

But even so, even considering all that, he had expected _something. _Maybe not censure, the offer to get a priest or call an exorcist, but stares, maybe. Questions, whispers. Surprise, at the very least.

But it had not been there.

When they had walked into Greenwich Hotel, hand-in-hand, no one had blinked; when they had walked in together to a sit-down restaurant, the waiter had not hesitated to suggest a "private table for two"; hell, when as an experiment, they had _kissed _in the middle of Alpha Phi Zeta, except for a few fratboy whistles, there had been no reaction, practically _none _at all.

And that was the way it had been with the rest of their friends: no shock, no surprise, merely "congratulations," followed by the unsettling sense that they had known about this for quite some time. And Matthew couldn't help being unsettled – it is, after all, a decidedly surreal knowledge that you were the last person to realize you were in love in your roommate. More surreal still that at least half your dorm had been _betting money _on you.

("And the fuckers couldn't even get us in on it," Gilbert mutters, still bitter.)

But still, even discounting mercenary interests, all of their friends had been incredibly pleasant about it – often _too_ pleasant, to be honest. Although both of them had flatly refused Antonio's offer of a celebration party – "what are we, getting engaged?" – that hadn't stopped him from handing them the bottle of Moët anyways (which, in the interest of saving his roommate's liver, Matthew had ended up drinking half of), and it certainly hadn't stopped their other friends from treating them like a pair of newly-weds.

First, it had been Antonio and his champagne; then Feliciano – the cheery freshman Matthew had seen earlier but whom he only now learned was somehow a) dating Ludwig Beilschmidt and b)related to _Lovino Vargas – _with gelato and a smile so large they had no way to refuse; then it had Francis, Francis and his "surprise party" at three am. In their room. While they were both sleeping.

(Matthew had made a vigilant effort to double, triple, and quadruple check the locks every night since.)

But worst of all was probably Yao Wang, who – in addition to being their RA, was also supposed to be an _adult _and thus far too _mature _for all this – had brought in a cake from Chinatown, delicious and beautifully decorated and iced with the words _Congratulations on your new baby!_

(Amidst the snickers, Yao had explained that it had a mix-up, something in the quick-fire Canto and Shanghainese that had given the worried-looking baker the impression that he was buying the cake for a baby shower – but all that hadn't stopped him from inviting their entire dorm over, and it certainly stopped any of the teasing since.)

It had been a little bit overwhelming, all the people and all the attention, but it was sweet, and besides, there were enough compensations to make up for it.

No, it wasn't the way Matthew had expected things to go – but looking at if from a week down the line, the gauzy fairytale fever still strong in the air, it seemed as close to perfection as he could ever want.

* * *

><p>Except –<p>

Except at the same time, it didn't feel quite _right._

Oh, it wasn't the actual dating part that Matthew was unhappy about – _that _was perfectly well. It hadn't even been two weeks, but it felt like it had barely been any time at all, as though this were something that had always been, they had always been.

It's just, well, he had thought it would be...different. Had thought that now that they were going out that things would change – not majorly, of course, but that in some tiny, infinitesimally important way, being a couple would feel different. Not the way they were now, which was basically just roommates except with more hand holding and kissing – which wasn't bad, of course, not at all. It was just –

Just that, in all the rom-coms and Shakespeare plays he'd seen, it had been _different. _More _intense_, everything life and death and emotions so high it was a wonder the actors didn't explode from all of them. And okay, even if that was unrealistic, even if _Romeo and Juliet _wasn't how love really worked – and he hoped it wasn't, because Matthew was certainly not ready to see his friends die and half the city burn because of his new romantic status – they had have gotten _some _of it right, didn't they? The "willing to have half the city burn" part, at least. And even if he could have done withoutthe overwrought confessions and teary declarations in the rain, Matthew would have liked some of it, some of that _intensity. _That trust.

* * *

><p>Because the thing was, the thing was –<p>

The thing was, they didn't _talk_.

Well, actually that was inaccurate. They did talk, of course – all the time actually, actually, and about all sorts of things: school, professors, the new episodes of Game of Thrones or Teen Wolf (Matthew's suggestion and their new obsession), whether Francis would ever stop being cagey and just tell them who he was stalking... When it came to pure word output, then yes, they talked – were probably better than it than most couples, to be honest.

But the thing was, it didn't feel _real._

Because even when they _were _talking, Gilbert was just so...cautious. Every word he said, every gesture – he probably thought he was being subtle, but Matthew could _tell _how guarded he was really being, how careful he was to strip all potential problems from his words, edit all causes for worry out of his texts and Facebook messages. The hard things – the unpleasant things – those were all absent, all shorn as easily from their conversations as easily as plucking the thorns off of a flower.

They talked, yes, but about the trivial things, the easy things; they talked, yes, but never about the _right things._

* * *

><p>"Hey, Gil?" Matthew asks one evening towards the end of February.<p>

"Yeah?" Gilbert says, looking up from his desk, where he sat with a thick stack of chemistry notes.

"Well," Matthew says, shrugging as he sits up on his bed, "I was just thinking that, it's just, spring break and midterms are coming up, and I was just wondering – would you want to go out for dinner or something? This weekend, I mean. Before we get busy with other stuff."

"Oh," Gilbert says, sucking in his teeth, "oh, actually, I'd love to – it's just, real sorry about it but I don't think I can make it this weekend. I've got, um, shit to do. Downtown."

"Downtown?" Matthew asks, blinking. "What for?"

"Oh," Gilbert says, shrugging, "just, you know, things."

Which is so oblique and unnecessarily vague it was maddening – what, exactly, does that mean, _things? _Homework? A nuclear advent only he could stop? A gang shootout from which he had only a slightest chance of surviving, so Matthew should say his goodbyes while he could?

It's a lot of obliqueness, in Matthew's opinion, to dance around the fact that his roommate had a psychiatrist's appointment every other Saturday. Gilbert might have tried to hide the cause of forays downtown, but there is no hiding the scowl that he inevitably sports afterwards, the pamphlets and new bottles of medicine that occasionally show up on his drawer.

But of course, no, that was hardly the way to look at it; of course, no, it could hardly be his fault. It was frustrating, yes, but Matthew was sure Gilbert had his reasons, and oblique as they were, Matthew had to try, had to attempt to understand.

So Matthew tries to be calm, tries to be reasonable as he asks, "well, how about next weekend, then?"

Gilbert blinks, looks startled for a moment, hand still on the doorknob.

"Sure," he says finally. "That sounds good to me."

* * *

><p><strong>Translations<strong>

Spanish

dale – roughly, come on (hopefully I've used it right in this context – if not, feel free to offer corrections)

Qué maravilloso - how wonderful

_qu__é__ fantástico - _how fantastic

verdaderamente - really?

pobrecito – poor thing/boy

French

dix – ten

vingt – twenty

peut-être – maybe

au fait - by the way

ne sais pas - I don't know

seulemente – only

Tout est juste dans l'amour et la guerre - all is fair in love and war

À propos - (roughly) on that subject

And as always, thank you guys so much for reading and putting up with my procrastination! Your comments and follows are always appreciated, even if sometimes I'm too lame to reply to them ^^;


	26. Said, Unsaid

A/N: I promise I haven't given up on this fic! I'm just...busy? Distracted? Terrible at updating? All of the above? (most likely) Whatever the reason, here's the chapter - thank you all for staying with the story, and happy, happy holidays to all of you! :)

* * *

><p>It starts as an ordinary day, an ordinary night – the two of them sitting back-to-back on the carpet, Matthew reading Piaget while Gilbert taps away at a physics problem, pausing occasionally from his calculator to glare at the walls. The heater is on, though the February cold is slowly beginning to fade, so the room is a little over-warm, but it is cozy – cozy, the dimmed lights, the soft carpet, the rickety <em>crick <em>of the heater blending with the slow _tick-tick-tick _of the clock on the wall. Neither of them speaking much, but the silence comfortable, companionable.

"Fuck this," Gilbert says suddenly, tossing his pen away as he sprawls out on the floor. "Fuck Spitzer, fuck linear algebra, fuck the chemistry department and its goddamn requirements –"

"Bad p-set?"

"Doesn't even cover it," Gilbert says, lolling his head to stare up at Matthew. "I swear to God, Mattie, I don't even think he even checks to see if these problems are _possible _before he gives them out."

"The perks of majoring in the hard sciences," Matthew says, smiling as he takes Gilbert's hand. "Not too late to switch to English, you know."

"As if," Gilbert says, groaning as he winds his fingers through Matthew's. "My GPA would go down, like, faster than Francis on the guy who runs _Le Bernardin._"

"Thank you for that lovely imagery," Matthew says, grimacing as he pushes his glasses up. "It's going make dinner all that much more enjoyable, let me tell you."

"Anytime, roomie."

"Mm," Matthew says, smiling as he highlight a passage. "I'll take you up on it."

Gilbert grins at him, wide and messy, then silently leans against Matthew's chest. And for a moment, they stay there, two college students resting against each other on a warming winter's night, nothing but silence and each other for company.

It is a beautiful, small, moment, the type to frame and snip for photo albums, the type Matthew wants to remember for months and months after.

And so naturally, it lasts all of two minutes.

"Fuck, I can't do this," Gilbert says, groaning as he sits up. "It's fucking Friday night, and I don't care how much of an asshole Spitzer is – I can't just sit here, staring at the walls and worrying over shit that's probably not even fucking possible. I'm going out."

"Out?" Matthew asks, blinking as he looks up. "Where?"

"Out," Gilbert says, grinning as he slips on a jacket. "Theta Phi's having a party, and there just happen to be _prooospies _in town. Baby high schoolers getting their first taste of the NYU experience, and I _know _at least two of Luddy's friends will be there – it's going to be fucking _fantastic._ Wanna come?"

"Oh," Matthew says. And he wants to let it go, he really does, but somehow, for some reason, this feels important now, like something he should say. "Gil, um, are you sure –"

"Sure?" Gilbert asks, turning around. "Oh yeah, I am fucking sure – you don't know my brother's friends, but think Luddy, but without the charming sense of humor. Oh, _yeah_, I wouldn't miss this for the world –"

"Not that," Matthew says, shaking his head. "I'm sure it'll be fun – it's just, don't you think, won't it – don't you it'll be bad with your medicine?"

A silence, looming in the _tick, tick, tick _of the clock.

"Look," Gilbert says, a kind of resigned patiencein his stance as he leans against the doorframe,"I know the docs probably have you pretty spooked, but seriously, it's all hocus pocus. A couple drinks never killed anyone –"

"A couple drinks means one or two, not five."

"What, are you counting now?" Gilbert scoffs, rolling his eyes. "Like, what am I even supposed to say to that – I mean, if it makes you happy then okay, scout's honor, I promise to tally up all my drinks and find a designated driver –"

"I'm _serious_," Matthew says, sitting up. "I know you don't think it's a big deal, but it's not just something you can shrug off. There _are _side effects, and all I'm saying is that you should try to be a little more careful–"

"Careful? Goddamn it, Mattie, you sound like my mother, not my boyfriend. And believe me, if I'd wanted a babysitter, I would have hired one – I'm not some drooling toddler, okay? I'm a fucking adult –"

"Well," and Matthew is surprised to find his voice rising, going to the fever-pitch anger he hasn't used since he was fourteen, "maybe you should have tried acting more like one first, then!"

There is a moment when the silence hangs between them, angry and sparking and hot to the touch.

"Fine," Gilbert says, and his voice is quiet, his voice is like the coldest ice. "Fine."

And without another word, he turns, and slams the door after him.

* * *

><p>Matthew wakes up at six, and spends the next two hours staring at the ceiling.<p>

At eight twenty-two, his bladder forces him out of bed, and Matthew sighs, brushes his teeth and resigns himself to the fact of being awake.

Well. Now what.

Nine four, and Matthew's hair still drip-drip-drips onto the ground, two servings of brownie in a mug sitting cold next to him.

It's early. He knows that, he does, just as he knows that Gil rarely wakes up before noon on a Saturday, and that wherever he'd chosen to crash, he'd likely still be there until one or two.

But one or two is far from now, and suddenly the hours until seem impossibly long, impossibly unbearable –

If Gilbert had been here (he thinks, he knows with more than a touch of bitterness), then it would have been fine, then it wouldn't have been a problem. If Gilbert had been here, then the five four hours would have been nothing, would have flown away before Matthew had a chance to know what to do with them. If Gilbert was here –

But he isn't. And without him, the apartment suddenly seems so empty and _big, _the hours so long and _far, _nothing but worry worry fear to drive Matthew through them_ –_

He has homework. That would kill time; he could do that.

So Matthew opens his laptop, takes his things out of his backpack, and starts.

And he tries, he really does – opens his textbook and takes out his calculator, flips through last quarter's notes on polarity and electromagnetism – but even then, when he is frowning over a particularly difficult redox problem, he can't help but find himself distracted, find himself thinking, _Gil would know this. _Or, when he switches from chemistry to English, _Gil would like this _as he idly flips through pages of _Naked Lunch –_

Twelve-thirty, and he gives on homework, goes to the kitchen and makes microwave mac 'n' cheese, almost taking out two bowls before remembering, no, Gilbert was not here, there was no need to make two portions.

He adds too much water and not enough weak, and the noodles are rubbery, the cheesy filmy and weak.

One-fourteen, and Matthew glances at the door, sees no one there, and logs onto Netflix.

Two-thirteen, and Matthew gives up on watching _Star Wars _– he doesn't know what's happening, he hasn't paid attention since they crashed on Tatoonie – glances at the clock. Fidgets, sighs, and loads up _Doctor Who. _

Three-thirty, and –

Three-forty, and –

Four, and –

Four-thirty comes, Gilbert is still not home, and Matthew can take it no longer.

Flinging on his jacket and grabbing his keys, he runs outside.

* * *

><p>Matthew doesn't run often – hadn't done it regularly since he quit hockey – but he still remembers it: the heavy feel of sneakers on concrete, the puffed out clouds of his breath as his feet pounded the sidewalk. The way the cold air would suck the breath out of him, leaving him gasping, unable to think about anything but the tread of one foot after another.<p>

It is not so cold today, late February almost turned March, but he dresses lightly, deliberately puts on a jacket too thin for the weather as he hurries outside –

And runs.

Runs without purpose, without direction, familiar buildings fading to unfamiliar ones as his feet stomp on the pavement, heavy, dull noise. There is no muscle memory here, no remembrance of where has been or where he is going, only the sheer, basic need to go, go, go as far as he could –

And it works; it almost works, the cold and exertion nearly doing it, stopping him from pausing, stopping from thinking on it –

Almost, but not quite.

Streets blur past him; his lung gasps under him, legs protesting and chest tightening with each corner, but he doesn't care, he doesn't care, he doesn't –

Matthew's not out of shape, but it's been months since he's been properly, really athletic, and so it's not long beforehe's forced to stop, lean against a streetlamp to catch his breath, and suddenly he can't do it anymore, he can't do it, he can't –

_He'd ruined it, ruined it, Gil hated him, he hated him and was never going to speak to him again, and it was all, all his fault –_

Something stings, at the corner of his eyes; he wipes it away, and is surprised to find his hand wet.

"Excuse me," a voice calls, "are you alright?"

Matthew starts, turns and sees –

A girl. Sitting, on a bench not three feet away (and how had he not seen her?) – roughly his age, by the looks of it, waves of brown hair and green eyes that are now full of concern.

"Oh," he says, taking a step back, "oh, um, yes, I'm fine –"

He's blinking. He's blinking and oh God, there are tears and oh God, oh God, she was _seeing_ this, trying to stop but he couldn't, he couldn't, he couldn't –

She watches him for a moment, bright green eyes careful, and then stands up and walks over to him.

"Here," she says, reaching in her purse and taking out a handkerchief, "take this."

He wants to refuse, tell her he is fine, but with the traitorous tears making it hard to breathe, Matthew can only nod, mutter a choked, "thank you" as he gratefully accepts.

"It's no problem," she says, smiling as she closes the clasps of her purse. "You look pretty beat though – maybe you should sit down for a bit?"

He nods, pathetically grateful as he sits down next to her on the bench. Tries – facing away from her, on the edge of the bench – to stifle the shaking in his chest, to breathe, breathe, breathe.

The girl – whoever she is – has the tact to pretend she cannot hear him, instead taking out a spool of yarn and quietly beginning to knit. She is not, he notices through the fog of his glasses, particularly good at it.

They sit there in quiet for a moment, the girl pretending to knit while Matthew forces himself to breathe, breathe, breathe.

After a moment, she begins to hum, something soft and foreign, and Matthew hangs onto it, focuses on the cadence of unfamiliar vowels until his breath evens out again.

"Feeling better?"

He nods, not quite trusting himself to talk. Experimentally darts a glances up at her – but no, there is no pity in her eyes, no sign that she is irritated or doing this out of obligation. And it helps, the kindness in her eyes, helps as much as it makes him feel guilty.

"I'm sorry," he says, feeling suddenly stupid, suddenly young as he sits up, "I – I don't think I caught your name?"

"I don't think you've asked, actually," she says. "Elizaveta. And you are?"

"Matthew."

"Well, then, Matthew," she says, smiling, "it's very nice to meet you."

"You too," he says, remembering at the last moment to reply. "Do you, um, know the way to Logan Square from here?"

"Logan Square?" she asks, blinking. "That's pretty far away – you might want to take a taxi or something."

Was he? He doesn't feel like he'd been running for that long – though now that he looked around, Matthew realizes that he didn't recognize any of the streets around him.

There is a short, brief moment of self-loathing as he realizes this – how had he let himself get into this, so lost and so far away from home, and he hadn't even brought his wallet, what had he been _thinking – _and then it places, recedes to nothing more than the same, slow dullness.

"Ah," Matthew says, feeling slightly dazed as he stood up, "I think that'll be okay, actually." He had run here, after all; he could run back.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Elizaveta frown.

"Tell you what," she says, putting her knitting needles down, "how about you wait here a little longer, and then leave? My fiancé should be here soon, so it won't be too long – just a few minutes or so. We can stay right here, and I promise I won't try to kidnap or murder you."

"Oh, um, that's okay – you don't have to –"

"But I want to," she says, smiling cheerfully. "Sorry, but you still look like a mess –I mean, no offense, but it'd be kind of rude to let you run off and get mugged, yeah? Or throw yourself off a cliff, or something. Plus, it gets boring waiting here by yourself – if you don't mind, I'd appreciate the company."

Matthew hesitates, but only for a moment. The thought of the empty dorm room, the loud tick of the clock in the darkness – all those things suddenly assault him, and he nods dumbly, feeling suddenly unable to move very much at all.

Elizaveta smiles, a summery, blinding thing as she pats the seat next to her.

Feeling very slow, very tired, Matthew sits down.

After a moment, she begins to hum again.

And they sit a while there, in silence beneath the shade of the trees.

* * *

><p>Five minutes pass – ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five. Half an hour, maybe more – Matthew doesn't know, doesn't care enough to get out his phone and find out how much time it is he's already lost, just sitting here.<p>

The panic had faded, after the first five minutes or so, but after that, it had been dread that had kept him. Dread not of the street around him – despite what Elizaveta had said about danger, there were children playing nearby, and Matthew was sure that in a last case scenario, he could always ask Yao to fulfill his RA duties and help him home – nor even dread of confronting Gilbert at home, angry and unwilling to talk to him. No, it is the other dread – the old dread: the empty room, the dark shadows, the cold, accusing silence –

Vestigial panic, then the tired dread of fight-and-flight; and then after that, as even that old dread fades into background noise, he finds himself wondering. As the minutes go on, sky slowly from brightness to the purpling of evening, it creeps up on him, half-conscious, half-unwanted curiosity. Every time he glances over, every time he catches a word or two of her tune –

He wonders, that's all. Who she is, this pretty girl with a ring on her left hand and the time to help complete strangers. The correct answer would have been a kidnapper or a murderer, but somehow Matthew can't believe that of her, of someone who would stop and offer a handkerchief to a shaky stranger. Engaged, obviously, though she hardly looked any older than he was – probably was out of college or not in it, right now, at least. Rich, probably, by the looks of her dress and shoes –

Elizaveta looks up, smiles as she sees Matthew not-so-subtly staring at her.

"Something on your mind?"

"No," he says, shaking his head. "It's just – shouldn't your fiancé be here by now?"

"Well, yeah, technically," she says, looking down at her phone, "but – well, Roddy's sweet, but then he gets tired easily and takes these _naps,_ or suddenly decides we need another torte, or plays the piano until he forgets where he is – I mean," she sighs, frowning, "I could just call a taxi, of course, but he seemed so _intent _when he told me, you know? I want to give a chance, that's all."

"Oh." A pause, searching for the right words. "Does...does he do this a lot?"

"Oh, all the time actually," Elizaveta sighs, brushing some hair out of her eyes, "whenever it comes to do the laundry or washing the dishes – like, we have timers, but I don't think I've _ever _seen him use them except when he's baking or something."

"Oh," Matthew says, trying to think about that, trying to understand it. "Does that – um, does that bother you? I mean, a lot?"

"Bother me?" Elizaveta asks, frowning. "Well, not really – most of the time, it's kind of cute, actually, but it gets worrying when it comes to larger things, like plane tickets or wedding reservations – like, I told him, Roddy, we need to reserve the church at least six months in advance, and he promises me he will, but when I go ask the pastor last week, do you know what he says? That'd he heard nothing about it! I mean, it's not even that I was mad at him – just worried, that's all."

"Maybe you should try telling him how you feel," Matthew says quietly.

"Yeah," she says, sighing as she stares at the ground, "that'd be smart, wouldn't it? But it's just so _frustrating _sometimes, that's all. Loving someone and seeing them make the same mistakes over and over again."

Matthew thinks about that, and winces at the memories that flash, unbidden, through his mind: cold hospital rooms and white walls, the harsh scent of alcohol and harsh, flashing words.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "I do."

"Personal experience?" she asks.

He nods, sharp and quick. "My roommate."

"Oh?"

He shrugs, saying nothing else. In the pocket of his jacket, his phone vibrates; Matthew ignores it.

"Do you guys, uh...not get along or something?"

"What? Oh – no, no that," Matthew says, shaking his head firmly. "It's just – we had a fight," he says, then says nothing more. Not wanting to elaborate, not wanting to expose anything more to someone who had already seen him cry.

"And?" she asks, gently.

"And then he walked out on me, and I haven't seen him all morning," Matthew says, staring down at his feet. "He probably hates me now."

"Oh, I'm sure he doesn't –"

"No," Matthew says, shaking his head as he sinks his face into his hands, "he _does."_

Silence, for long moment.

"You know," Elizaveta says finally, slowly, "back when I was a kid, I used to have this friend of mine – lived right next to each other, grew up together, knew each other's pizza order, you know the deal. Best friends, you could probably call us now. But the thing is, at the time? We were _dicks _to each other. Fought every chance we could, yelled at each other, pulled the _worst _pranks at school – God, we were brats. But at the same time, if you asked? I would've beat the stuffing out of anyone who said shit about him, and he'd do the same. Did, actually, once," she said, wincing. "But, anyway, teenage shenanigans aside, the point is – a lot of people are idiots. Get angry, say things they don't mean, and then just act like assholes who pretend that none of that ever happened. But that doesn't mean they're not sorry, you don't? Just that they're too scared to apologize."

"I guess," Matthew says finally. "But it's just – I'm not sure, that's all. If he's still angry, or if. I just – yeah," he sighs, staring at his feet. "Yeah."

"Well," Elizaveta offers quietly, after a pause, "maybe you should try asking him?"

"But what if –"

"What if what? What if he's still mad at you, what if he really _does _hate you? Or what if you doesn't, and you don't know because you're too scared to ask? What he's not talking to you because he's just madly in love with you, and you're just freaking yourself out for nothing?"

Matthew stares at her.

"Well, okay, maybe not the last one," Elizaveta admits, smiling abashedly. "But like you said to me: talk to him, right?"

Talk to him. Talk to him – because Gilbert would probably be back by now, probably wondering where in the world he was, the whole thing probably completely forgotten –

(_but what if it wasn't?) _

– but no, no, that was stupid, that was jumping to conclusions and believing the worst before he'd gotten any evidence at all –

_Talk to him. _

It sounded so easy. So simple, the first thing every therapist in every cliché would say – and yet, and yet –

No. It _was _easy; it would be easy. Nothing more than a simple text, to tell Gilbert how he felt. One text, apologetic but firm, asking him if they could meet, could talk –

He could do this. He would do this.

Taking a breath to steady himself, Matthew reaches for his phone and – _oh._

On the screen, flashing bright in the dimming twilight, string after string of unread messages –

All from Gilbert.

- _so i'm at the restaurant if you want to order appetizers or w/e _

– _hey mattie, where are you? kind of getting bored here..._

– _mattie? mattie? are you okay why aren't you answering my texts where the _fuck_ are you –_

_ Oh, _Matthew thinks, and feels the bottom fall out of his stomach as he swallows. _Oh. _They'd had a date, hadn't they? He'd asked for it first, had arranged the time and place –

And now he had missed it.

_ I'm, _Matthew pauses, looks up at the letters on the park sign, _in Balsley Park. Sorry about not answering about your texts – I didn't hear my phone. _Hesitates a moment, then adds a sad bird to the text, one of Mei's garish Asian emoticons he'd never used out of embarrassment.

"Hey," Elizaveta asks, peering over, "everything okay?"

"Yeah," Matthew says, head still reeling, "yeah, it is, it's just – well," he says, shaking his head as he looks up, "I think he texted me eight times and I just – I just, well, didn't think he'd be this worried."

"See?" she says, beaming. "I _was _right."

Matthew feels another beep in his pocket, looks down and sees the flashing letters of another next text from Gilbert.

_good – don't move at all. i'll find _you

"Yeah," he says, smiling slowly. "Guess so."

* * *

><p>"Are you sure you want to still wait?" Matthew says, putting his phone back in his pocket. "It's getting dark."<p>

"Nah," Elizaveta says, shaking her head, "I think I'll wait until I make sure you're not being kidnapped and order myself a cab. _Then _give Roddy a piece of my mind, and let him make it up to me. He's quite good at that, you know," she says, smiling, "even if I'd prefer it wasn't necessary in the first place."

"Are you sure –"

"Yeah," Elizaveta says, shrugging. "It's okay; I'm used to it."

Matthew watches her for a moment – the stiff lines of her smile, the downward slope of her shoulders – but, finally, chooses to not comment.

Instead he says, "thank you. For waiting, for offering to – for everything."

"Oh, it was my pleasure," Elizaveta says, and her smile warms a little more to genuineness. "It really wasn't anything – it was lovely talking to you. Really."

Matthew is about to say something as well, _same here _or _you too, _but then stops, distracted by the vibration of another incoming text.

"Just a moment," Matthew says, frowning as he reads the text. "I think he's already here –"

And he looks up, makes a sweep of the park. Not there – and not there, or there –

And then there, among the trees, a shock of white hair hurrying through the grass – and was he wearing a _suit, _Matthew realizes with vague shock, and what were those, were those flowers in his hand –

Matthew stands up, ready to wave Gilbert over, but it is Elizaveta who beats him to it.

"Gil?" she says, mouth open in shock.

Gilbert stops, pauses as he peers around – trees, benches, the park sign –

Matthew.

The tension slides of his shoulders instantly, and smiling, he takes a step forward –

Then sees Elizaveta.

Confused, Matthew watches as they stop, stare at each other. Watches as Gilbert blinks, half in shock, almost rubs his eyes before stopping himself.

"Liza?"


End file.
